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REAL  FRON  T 

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ARTHUR  HUNT  CHUTE 


CLIVEDEN  LIBRARY 

Shelf  .AaJL^j&t** 

Number... .rt 

Date  .  .tc.a.2.- 

I      V&ldorf  ASTOR    Nancy      f 


THE    REAL    FRONT 


THE 

REAL  FRONT 


BY 


ARTHUR  HUNT  CHUTE 

LATH  FIRST   CANADIAN  DIVISION 


HARPER  tf  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW   YORK   AND   LONDON 


The  Real  Front 


Copyright,  191 8,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  March,  1918 

C-8 


TO 
THE    MEMORY   OF    MY    FRIEND 

Lieutenant  John    L.  Godwin,  C.F.A. 

WHO   SLEEPS   ON   THE   FIELD   OF   HONOR 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAOE 

Introduction ix 

I.  The  Making  of  the  First  Canadians     .  1 

II.  From  the  Base  to  the  Firing-line      .     .  24 

III.  With  the  Roaring  Guns 39 

IV.  Angels  of  Death 65 

V.  The  Real  Front 77 

VI.  On  Our  Street  of  Adventure     ....  95 

VII.  The  End  of  a  Bitter  Day 110 

VIII.  The  Faith  of  a  Soldier 124 

IX.  Mv  Finest  Moment  in  France    ....  136 

X.  "The  Day  of  Reckoning" 145 

XI.  Through  Death  Valley  by  Daylight      .  171 

XII.  The  Red  Cross  Nurse 203 

XIII.  The  Stuff  that  Makes  a  Soldier  .     .    .  216 

XIV.  New  World  Troops  in  an  Old  World  War  233 

XV.  Serving  Our  Soldiers 256 

XVI.  A  Cradle  of  Our  Victories 269 

XVDI.    How  Sleep  the  Brave 278 

XVIII.  "Vers  la  Gloire"       298 


INTRODUCTION 

ALL  those  who  have  come  under  the  star- 
L  shells  of  the  firing-line,  have  touched  the 
point  where  life  is  epic.  Where  the  brazier 
fires  burn  at  night  along  the  shivering  trenches 
existence  may  be  bare  of  comfort,  but  it  rings 
with  loud  adventure. 

Unto  our  children's  children,  and  beyond,  the 
grayest  lives  lived  in  those  trenches  shall  shine 
forth  with  colors  of  romance.  It  is  well  to  read 
history  in  an  arm-chair,  but  it  is  far  better  to 
make  history  under  the  blue.  It  was  grand  to 
live  in  the  spacious  days  of  good  Queen  Bess. 
But  we  need  envy  no  past  age,  who  have  helped 
to  make  the  history  of  this  present. 

Beyond  the  objective  happenings,  the  author 
has  tried  to  bring  home  some  of  those  subjective 
facts,  that  will  remain,  when  mere  events  have 
been  forgotten. 

The  Real  Front  is  a  place  where  one  is  always 
face  to  face  with  the  profundities  of  life.  I  was 
talking  with  a  gray:bearded  gentleman  the  other 
day  and,  speaking  of  a  certain  event,  I  said, 
"Of  course,  sir,  only  old  men  like  yourself  and  I 
can  appreciate  such  things." 


INTRODUCTION 

He  looked  at  me  in  a  quizzical  manner,  and 
laughingly  exclaimed,  "What  do  you  mean,  my 
boy?" 

"I  mean,"  I  answered,  "that  life  is  not  meas- 
ured by  years,  but  by  experiences,  and  in  that 
sense  I  am  your  peer  in  age,  for  I  have  been  on 
the  Real  Front;  I  have  dwelt  for  months  in  the 
Temple  of  the  Angels  of  Death." 

My  memories  of  France  are  like  a  vast  kalei- 
doscope of  pictures.  In  choosing  the  scenes 
which  I  have  thrown  again  upon  the  screen  I  have 
sought  for  those  that  best  set  forth  the  Real 
Front,  which  is  still  so  dimly  apprehended  by  the 
folks  at  home. 

Out  of  all  the  tragedy  and  sorrow  of  the 
trenches,  the  triumph  of  the  soldierly  spirit  is 
the  thing  that  rises,  phcenix-like,  from  the  ashes 
of  this  war.  This  triumph  of  the  soldierly  spirit 
is  the  greatest  fact  for  me  in  all  this  conflict. 
There  flashes  before  me  a  picture  from  Flanders, 
emblematic  of  the  triumph  of  this  spirit. 

I  am  in  Poperinghe  behind  the  salient  of  Ypres. 
I  am  at  dinner  in  an  Estaminet  when  down  the 
road  comes  the  shrill  voice  of  the  fife  and  drum. 
Every  one  springs  to  the  window.  Soldiers  and 
civilians  are  all  rushing  for  a  glimpse  as  a  regiment 
goes  marching  by.  Months  in  France  cannot 
dim  the  glory  of  this  spectacle.  Only  those  who 
have  been  there  can  fully  appreciate  such  a  sight. 

A  battalion  of  the  Northumberland  Fusileers 


INTRODUCTION 

is  marching  up  from  rest  billets  to  do  their  stunt 
in  the  trenches.  At  the  head  of  the  column  on 
his  spirited  charger  is  the  colonel  of  the  regiment. 
Behind  the  colonel  marches  a  goat,  the  battalion 
mascot,  led  by  the  colonel's  batman.  Behind, 
at  respective  distances,  come  the  companies,  each 
led  by  its  captain.  Dogs  without  number  follow 
faithfully  at  the  heels  of  their  chosen  masters. 
Many  of  these  dogs  were  possessed  of  happy  homes, 
far  behind  the  lines,  but  they  fell  in  with  Tommy, 
instinctively  loved  him,  and  forsook  all  to  follow 
the  hard  fortunes  of  the  Northumberlands. 

Lewis  machine-guns  go  by  on  hand-trucks. 
The  Maxim  guns  follow  with  horses  and  limbers 
and  regimental  transport.  At  the  end  of  the  line 
are  the  traveling-kitchens,  smoking  and  steam- 
ing, while  the  cooks  prepare  a  meal  to  the  tramp 
of  the  marching  men. 

The  Tommies,  as  usual,  are  in  gay  humor, 
singing  with  the  band,  laughing  at  one  another, 
flinging  gibes  to  the  crowd  and  kisses  to  madame 
and  the  two  pretty  Belgian  girls  in  the  Estaminet. 
Only  here  and  there  a  grave  young  subaltern 
or  the  earnest-faced  captain  at  the  head  of  the 
last  company  call  to  mind  the  fact  that  many  of 
these  men  will  not  come  back. 

Around  the  corner  rattles  the  last  transport, 
followed  by  the  last  attending  dog.  The  fife  and 
drums  grow  dim,  and  die  away. 

I  twas  in  Poperinghe  again  when  that  same  gay 


INTRODUCTION 

battalion  of  Northumberlands  came  marching 
out.  The  fife  and  drums  had  come  to  play 
them  back.  The  colonel  of  the  gray  and  master- 
ful face  was  gone.  The  company  commander 
who  marched  behind  him  was  gone.  The  com- 
pany was  a  tattered  remnant,  led  by  a  one-star 
subaltern.  The  other  companies  were  also  in 
tatters.  I  looked  for  the  serious-faced  young 
captain  of  the  last  company,  but  he  was  gone. 
Billy,  the  battalion  mascot,  was  in  the  rear,  and 
it  was  not  the  colonel's  batman  that  led  him. 

Last  week  I  saw  that  battalion  pass,  a  thousand 
strong.  Now,  scarce  two  hundred  were  return- 
ing. But,  unkempt,  war-worn,  and  tattered  as 
this  remnant  was,  its  spirit  was  unbroken.  The 
band  struck  up  the  latest  hit  and  every  marching 
man  joined  merrily  in  the  chorus.  That  was  but 
an  expression  of  the  soldierly  spirit  which  over 
every  tragedy  remained  unconquered. 

Out  of  the  mud  and  mire  of  Flanders,  out  of 
the  winter's  cold  and  rain,  out  of  shell-swept 
trenches,  out  of  holes  in  the  ground  where  men 
live  amidst  blood  and  mire,  where  corpses  are 
thickly  strewn,  out  of  all  this  woe  and  hardship 
comes  the  voice  of  Tommy,  singing : 

"Are  we  downhearted?     No!" 

This  is  the  triumph  of  the  soldierly  spirit  which 
is  the  goal  of  all  America's  new  armies. 

Arthur  Hunt  Chute. 

January,  1918. 


THE    REAL    FRONT 


THE    REAL    FRONT 


THE  MAKING   OF   THE   FIRST   CANADIANS 

"HP  HERE  she  goes,  Alf!"  and  with  that  ex- 

A     clamation  from   a    Garrison    gunner    the 

peaceful  Somme  nightfall  was  rudely  broken.    A 

moment  before  the  white  chalk  rim  of  the  horizon 

was  serene  with  the  pink  of  twilight,  and  the 

evening  star  was  beginning  to  twinkle  on  a  world 

of  stealing  shadows;  then  with  the  roar  of  a  giant 

whiplash  a  sixty-pounder    broke    the    stillness, 

and  like  one  voice  a  thousand  guns  burst  forth. 

Down  the  long  black  valley  the  eternal  lightnings 

leaped,  and  an  endless  ribbon  of  thunder  rolled 

up  from  the  guns. 

I  reined  in  my  horse  for  a  moment  beside  a 

group  of  gunners  to  watch  the  sky-line.     At  last 

the  "big  push"  had  begun. 

"Do  you  see  them  chaps,  Alf?"  burst  out  the 

speaker    of    a    moment    before.     "Them's    the 
i  l 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

First  Canoidians,  the  boys  who  'eld  the  line  at 
Ypres  last  year.  They're  one  of  the  foinest  fight- 
ing divisions  on  the  front,  they're  going  over  the 
top  at  the  dawn,  and  may  Gawd  'elp  Fritz!'* 

These  words  from  the  unknown  gunner  stirred 
a  warm  pride  within  my  breast,  for  I,  too,  was 
one  of  the  First  Canadians,  and  with  a  thrill  I 
gazed  upon  the  road,  along  which,  like  a  mighty 
torrent,  the  regiments  were  moving  up  for  the 
attack  at  the  dawn. 

"Who  are  you?"  I  inquired  of  the  passing 
figures. 

"The  Seventh  Battalion  from  British  Colum- 
bia," came  back  the  reply. 

The  kings  of  No  Man's  Land,  and  the  pioneers 
of  raiding,  I  mused. 

A  few  moments  later  I  inquired  again.  "  We're 
the  Tenth  Battalion,  the  White  Ghurkas,"  an- 
swered a  lusty  voice. 

Yes,  Fritz  knows  your  name  and  knows  it  well, 
I  thought. 

Each  one  of  these  names  of  the  old  First  are 
names  to  conjure  with  on  the  British  front  to-day, 
and  above  the  names  of  the  regiments  themselves, 
is  the  gathered  glory  of  the  division  to  which 
they  belong,  the  First  Canadians. 

What's  in  a  name?  some  one  has  asked. 
Everything.     There  is  no  finer  example  of  the 


THE  MAKING  OF  THE  FIRST   CANADIANS 

potency  of  a  name  than  that  of  the  First  Cana- 
dians. A  short  time  ago  that  name  was  unknown 
in  British  military  annals.  To-day  it  thrills  with 
the  love  of  strong  men  and  the  pride  of  heroes. 
It  has  become  for  our  young  Dominion  a  touch- 
stone of  loyalty,  of  valor,  and  of  sacrifice. 

Blood  and  iron,  and  fire  and  storm,  were  the 
components  of  the  First  Canadians.  There  were 
the  swashbucklers,  the  Bismarckian  apostles  of 
war,  old  soldiers  who  lived  in  hopes  of  future 
battles,  and  there  were  also  the  irresistibles, 
young  spirit-brothers  of  Lord  Clive,  who  had 
been  kicked  out  of  the  Old  Country  for  the  sake 
of  the  peace  at  home,  boys  who  burst  the  con- 
fines of  the  parish  and  the  kirk  and  scattered  to 
the  four  winds  of  wide  heaven.  Blood  and  iron, 
and  fire  and  storm,  were  the  components  of  the 
First  Canadians,  elements  of  greatest  promise 
and  of  gravest  peril.  None  have  written  of  the 
making  of  this  force,  but  it  is  a  story  that  richly 
deserves  to  be  told,  and  as  one  of  the  camaraderie 
of  old  I  have  attempted  the  task. 

On  the  20th  of  August,  1914,  I  stood  on  the 
platform  of  a  country  railroad  station  in  Nova 
Scotia.  Suddenly  the  station-master  announced, 
"Here  comes  your  troop-train,"  and  around  the 
curve  and  down  the  track  came  a  far-shining 
headlight. 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

In  answer  to  the  red  light's  signal  to  stop  the 
train  began  to  slow  down,  amidst  a  roar  of  pro- 
testing steam.  As  the  cars  glided  by  I  noticed 
that  each  bore  a  large  inscription.  On  one, 
through  the  moving  blur,  I  read,  "To  hell  with 
the  Kaiser."  The  next  car  which  came  to  a 
final  stop  bore  the  inscription,  "Colonist  sleeper 
for  Berlin."  "That's  the  car  for  me,"  I  said  to 
myself.  Flinging  my  kit-bag  on  the  platform, 
I  jumped  aboard.  Just  as  I  did  so  the  door  burst 
open  and  a  burly  red-headed  Scotchman  from 
Cape  Breton  exclaimed,  "Hello,  Bo!"  Imme- 
diately, to  emphasize  the  warmth  of  his  welcome, 
he  grasped  me  by  the  nape  of  the  neck,  and  sent 
me  reeling  into  a  long  car  full  of  uproarious 
larrikins  in  various  degrees  of  intoxication. 

A  chorus  of  discordant  voices,  engaged  in  sing- 
ing "Thora,"  ceased  at  my  precipitate  appear- 
ance and  all  jumped  to  the  task  of  giving  me  the 
"glad  hand."  With  amazing  rapidity  I  was 
passed  down  the  long  aisle,  everybody's  boot 
assisting  me  in  my  progress. 

"Skinny  Lena  next!"  yelled  Red  Maclsaac, 
working  himself  into  a  paroxysm,  and  grasping  a 
long  thin  leg  that  protruded  from  the  upper 
berth  of  the  sleeper.  At  one  instant  Skinny 
Lena  was  enjoying  a  sweet  repose,  at  the  next 
he  was  being  tossed  about  like  a  cork, 


THE  MAKING  OF  THE  FIRST   CANADIANS 

"  'Ere,  'ere!  This  won't  'arf  do!"  exclaimed  a 
shrill  -  voiced  cockney  sergeant,  of  the  Army 
Service  corps,  raising  his  diminutive  body  upon 
a  seat  to  emphasize  his  authority.  For  one  mo- 
ment he  stood  erect,  laying  down  the  law  from 
the  seats  of  the  mighty,  then  his  dignity  suddenly 
sputtered  out  and  an  Irishman  rushed  upon  him, 
yelling: 

"Come  to  me,  my  darlint,  we'll  'ere,  'ere  ye." 

The  next  moment,  howling  and  kicking,  he 
made  the  most  undignified  passage  of  all  down 
the  long  aisle.  At  the  end  he  still  yapped  de- 
fiance. 

"The  gineral  ain't  finished  his  trip,"  some  one 
announced.  "He's  got  a  return  ticket."  And 
with  that  the  hapless  cockney  was  started  back, 
at  the  end  of  which  his  wind  was  completely 
knocked  out,  and,  dead  to  the  world,  he  was 
dumped  into  a  berth. 

Pandemonium  was  at  its  height  when  the  door 
of  the  car  burst  open  and  a  grizzled  old  High- 
lander, who  proved  to  be  the  colonel,  stood  glar- 
ing at  the  wild  men.  A  deathless  silence  ensued. 
The  fiery  and  leonine  Maclsaac  took  on  the  ap- 
pearance of  a  wilted  sunflower.  For  a  short 
space  the  air  cracked  as  the  colonel  laid  down  the 
law,  and  then  he  departed  as  suddenly  as  he  had 

come. 

5 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

A  profound  silence  reigned  for  some  time,  and 
when  mouth-organs  and  vocalists  began  to  make 
the  car  melodious  once  more,  one  was  conscious 
of  a  sober  restraint.  The  colonel's  presence, 
though  unseen,  was  felt.  That  grizzled  old  war- 
rior had  merely  impinged  his  personality  upon 
this  bear  garden,  and  it  had  been  transformed 
into  the  atmosphere  of  a  Sabbath-school. 

As  the  train  roared  on  through  the  night  the 
spirit  of  sleep  began  to  steal  over  the  car.  Finally 
all  seemed  to  be  wrapped  in  slumber  except  my- 
self and  the  little  cockney  sergeant,  who  had  come 
to  and  was  moaning  as  though  in  pain. 

I  approached  him  and  inquired  if  I  could  do 
anything  to  put  him  at  ease. 

"Aw,  it  ain't  the  rough  'andling  that's 
a-botherin'  o'  me,  but  oh,  my  Gawd,  I  was 
a-wonderin'  'ow  I'd  ever  make  sodjers  out  o'  this 
mob  from  'ell.  It  fair  makes  me  groan,  it  does, 
to  think  o'  what's  ahead.  I  tell  ye  I've  'ad  the 
'andlin'  o'  rough  stuff  in  me  day.  I've  'ammered 
the  fear  o'  dooty  into  toughs  from  Mile  End 
Road,  and  I've  seen  the  sweepin's  o'  'ell  made 
into  an  harmy,  and  where  there  is  'ope  I  sees  it, 
but  Gawd  bli'  me,  there's  no  'ope  for  these 
Canoidians.  Ye  cawn't  make  an  harmy  out  o' 
them.     No,  sez  I,  it  cawn't  be  done." 

I  felt  the  cogency  of  the  cockney's  argument. 

6 


THE  MAKING  OF  THE  FIRST   CANADIANS 

Here  was  a  problem  indeed,  and  for  a  long  time 
I  pondered  the  question,  What  kind  of  soldiers 
would  these  incorrigibles  make?  They  might 
serve  well  in  an  irregular  war,  but  ahead  of  us 
was  scientific  fighting.  Could  we  produce  an 
army  adequate  to  such  exacting  tests?  The 
grizzled  old  colonel  at  least  cast  a  ray  of  light 
on  the  gloom.  With  masters  of  men  like  that 
we  could  do  anything. 

Next  day  the  cockney  sergeant  had  another 
grim  reminder  of  a  task  beyond  his  power. 
The  troop-train  had  stopped  for  a  time  in  a 
French-Canadian  town  famous  for  its  ardent 
intoxicant,  known  as  "Whisky  Blanc."  The 
sergeant  had  stationed  sentries  at  the  doors  of 
the  car  with  strict  orders  to  let  no  one  out. 
Suddenly  Red  Maclsaac  confronted  him.  The 
cockney  attempted  to  block  the  passage,  but  the 
big  Cape-Bretoner  whisked  him  away  like  a  fly, 
exclaiming:  "Aw,  git  out  o'  me  way,  will  ye? 
Ye  give  me  a  pain." 

At  the  same  time  that  Red  and  his  boon  com- 
panions were  leaving  by  the  door  I  noticed  the 
clinking  spurs  of  two  Annapolis  County  light 
cavalrymen  momentarily  in  midair  as  their  own- 
ers dived  through  the  window.  The  sergeant 
was  quick  in  sending  guards  upon  the  trail  and 
after  a  short  time  red-coated  guards  and  guarded 

7 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

alike  came  reeling  back  in  various  degrees  of 
intoxication,  singing  at  the  top  of  their  voices, 
"Love  me  and  the  world  is  mine." 

"If  it  weren't  for  auld  Colonel  Donald  Mac- 
Kenzie  MacTavish  in  there,"  said  a  somber- 
visaged  Cape-Bret  oner,  "this  menagerie  would 
neffer  arrive  whateffer.  But  the  auld  boy  would 
deliver  the  goods,  neffer  ye  fear." 

Thanks  to  the  iron  hand  of  Colonel  MacTavish, 
the  Nova  Scotia  contingent  arrived,  the  New 
Brunswick  contingent  was  arriving  at  the  same 
time,  and  as  the  two  mobs  flowed  into  each  other 
the  uproar  and  spontaneous  rivalry  engendered 
reminded  one  of  a  Harvard-Yale  football  game. 
Whatever  the  battles  of  the  future  might  be,  a 
dingdong  scrap  between  Canada's  two  provinces 
by  the  sea  was  imminent.  Indeed,  several 
couples  were  already  stepping  it  out  for  a 
bonnie  fight  when  they  were  suddenly  paralyzed 
by  the  awful  voice  of  MacTavish.  Incorrigible 
spirits  might  be  here,  but  with  them  was  their 
master. 

The  place  appointed  for  the  gathering  of  the 
First  Canadians  was  a  beautiful  plain  under  the 
shadow  of  the  grim  Laurentian  Mountains. 
Here,  about  an  hour's  distance  by  train  from 
the  historic  gateway  of  Quebec,  railway  sidings 
had  been  built,  and  along  that  railway  and  over 

8 


THE  MAKING  OF  THE  FIRST  CANADIANS 

the  sidings,  like  a  ceaseless  river,  the  troops  of 
Canada's  new  army  flowed  in  streams. 

We  were  among  the  first  to  arrive,  and  found 
ourselves  in  a  camp  of  only  a  few  thousand,  but 
day  by  day  for  the  rest  of  the  week  the  troops 
kept  pouring  in.  Each  day  the  white  tents 
marched  farther  across  the  plain,  and  each  night 
I  watched  the  myriad  lights  of  a  great  city 
twinkling  farther  and  farther  down  into  the  long 
darkness  of  the  valley. 

At  length  thirty-three  thousand  men  were 
gathered  from  the  four  winds  of  Canada.  It 
was  a  moving  sight  to  stand  by  the  headquarters 
flagstaff  by  night,  to  look  out  upon  the  sea  of 
camp-fires  and  far-shining  lights;  to  hear  the 
hum  of  its  restless  life  and  to  breathe  the  air  of 
vast  adventure. 

Val  Cartier  Camp  in  its  early  days  reminded 
one  of  the  gold  cities  of  the  West,  of  'Frisco  in 
'49,  or  of  Dawson  City  in  '98.  Here  was  the  same 
spontaneous  and  sudden  springing  up,  and  here 
was  the  same  restless  blood  of  a  new  country, 
bringing  with  it  an  air  of  imminence  and  ad- 
venture. One  felt  that  the  impatient  populace 
of  this  tent-city  would  sooner  set  themselves  to 
make  history  under  the  blue  than  to  read  it  in  an 
arm-chair. 

What  strange  sights  one  beheld  with  the  ar- 

9 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

riving  of  new  contingents !  Perhaps  it  was  a  per- 
fectly ordered  and  accoutred  battalion  like  the 
Fifth  Royal  Scots  of  Montreal,  a  city  battalion, 
marching  like  regulars,  with  kilts  and  pipes,  or 
perhaps  a  rough-and-ready  detachment  of  the 
Rocky  Mountain  Rangers,  singing  and  marching 
nonchalantly  along,  accompanied  by  their  mas- 
cot, the  cub  of  a  grizzly  bear.  One  saw  dis- 
mounted troops  of  Western  horse,  with  broad- 
brimmed  Stetsons  and  shirts  of  red  and  pink. 
Some  regiments  and  some  companies,  even  at 
the  first  appearance,  were  soldiers  to  the  minute; 
others,  to  quote  a  contemptuous  corporal  of  the 
Northwest  Mounted  Police,  "were  the  last  ex- 
piring sigh." 

A  majority  of  the  First  Canadians  were  from 
the  Old  Country.  Many  of  these  boys  were 
ne'er-do-wells  at  home.  One  told  me  how  the 
"Guv'nor"  offered  him  "a  fiver"  and  a  second- 
class  ticket  to  the  farthest  side  of  the  world,  and 
he  said,  "I  beat  it  for  Vancouver  Island."  The 
errant  ones  who  flee  farthest  from  the  Motherland 
in  times  of  peace  fly  swiftest  to  her  side  in  war. 
In  the  rancher's  shack  and  in  the  miner's  cabin 
the  sweetest  word  of  all  is  "England."  The  "  Old 
Country,"  they  call  her  in  terms  of  endearment, 
and  the  love  of  strong  men  ever  binds  them  to 

the  lintels  of  their  home  land. 

10 


THE  MAKING  OF  THE  FIRST   CANADIANS 

"Why  did  you  come?"  I  inquired  of  one  whose 
struggles  to  get  back  to  civilization  to  join  the 
army  had  been  like  Stanley's  fight  through  the 
Dark  Continent. 

"I  came,"  he  replied,  simply,  "because  I  had 
to  come." 

There  is  a  beautiful  valley  in  the  British 
Columbian  mountains  which,  in  the  early  au- 
tumn of  1914,  was  inhabited  entirely  by  old 
army  and  navy  officers.  There  were  the  golden 
fields  and  orchards,  waiting  for  the  harvest,  but 
the  call  of  war  sounded  in  the  mountain  homes, 
and  the  men -folk  left  their  harvests  to  pass 
untouched.  Since  then  the  women  and  children 
have  departed,  the  place  has  become  deserted, 
the  winters  and  summers  have  come  and  gone, 
and  the  wilderness  is  closing  in  again  on  what  was 
once  a  smiling  valley. 

The  hopes  and  dreams  were  bidden  a  fond 

farewell,    but    there    was    no    repining.      Only 

one     fear    was    heard    in   Val    Cartier    Camp, 

and    that    was   that   the   war   might   be    over 

before     we     got    there.      With    headlong    im- 

petuousness  these  men  had  left  all  and  come 

to    serve    the    Old    Gray    Mother.      Not    how 

they    fought,    but    the    spirit    in    which    they 

came  to  fight,  is  the  Empire's  greatest  glory. 

Their  Odyssey  of  Battle  remains,  a  touchstone 

11 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

of  British  devotion,  a  proof  of  an  empire  that 
must  endure. 

Under  the  blue  September  sky  and  the  shadow 
of  the  Laurentian  Mountains  the  embryonic 
army  passed  its  training.  No  'varsity  team  out 
for  the  season's  trophy  were  more  keen  than  they. 
Rumors  from  far-off  battle-fields  stole  into  the 
camp  and  were  listened  to  with  wistful  yearning. 
Would  we  ever  get  there,  too? 

Beside  the  headquarters  flagstaff  was  a  row  of 
tents  inhabited  by  deep-chested,  bull-necked 
men,  with  mighty  voices,  upon  whose  breasts 
were  the  ribbons  of  many  campaigns,  and  whose 
faces  were  bronzed  by  the  suns  and  winds  of  all 
the  world.  These  were  the  lion-taining  drill 
sergeants,  the  omnipotent  creators  of  the  First 
Canadians,  the  demigods  that  transformed  a 
mob  into  a  regiment,  and  out  of  a  menagerie 
brought  forth  a  division.  The  little  cockney 
might  have  his  doubts,  but  with  Col.  Donald 
MacKenzie  MacTavish  for  commanding  officer, 
and  Sergeant-Major  Fury  for  instructor,  I  soon 
saw  that  all  things  were  possible  for  us. 

I  had  been  promoted  from  the  rank  of  a 
private  to  that  of  an  officer,  and  in  my  new  posi- 
tion, unfortunately,  I  missed  the  lurid  colors  of 
the  "Colonist  Special  for  Berlin." 

One  day  I  again  saw  my  friend,  Red  Maclsaac. 

12 


THE  MAKING  OF  THE  FIRST  CANADIANS 

He  was  engaged  at  drill  and,  as  usual,  was  in  con- 
tentious mood.  "What  '11  I  do  that  for?"  he 
was  expostulating. 

'You'll  do  that  because  hit's  horders,"  thun- 
dered Sergeant-Major  Fury. 

"Like  hell  I  will,"  growled  Maclsaac,  fling- 
ing down  his  rifle  to  emphasize  his  indepen- 
dence. 

When  I  beheld  the  invincible  Cape-Bretoner 
a  few  moments  later  he  was  bearing  a  huge  pack 
on  his  back,  marching  back  and  forth  at  the 
double,  while  the  implacable  Sergeant-Major 
Fury  shot  orders  at  him  like  a  Maxim.  "Left 
turn!  .  .  .  Pick  hit  hup,  I  say — pick  hit  hup, 
now.  .  .  .  About  turn.  .  .  .  Quick,  now.  .  .  • 
Pick  hit  hup  there." 

Maclsaac  was  soaked  with  perspiration  and 
his  face  was  dark  with  shame  and  pain.  But 
the  countenance  of  the  sergeant-major  was  a 
case  of  steel.  Breaking  incorrigibles  was  his 
profession. 

When  I  again  saw  Red  Maclsaac  it  was  at  a 
little  village  called  Shrewton,  on  the  fringes  of 
Salisbury  Plains.  The  Fifth  Royal  Highlanders 
were  doing  picket  duty  in  the  town  that  day, 
and  as  I  passed  an  inn  called  the  "Catherine 
Wheel,"  in  company  with  my  major,  the  corporal 
of  the  guard  called  his  men  smartly  to  attention 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

and  gave  us  a  clean-cut,  sharp  salute.  His  every 
attitude  was  that  of  a  true  soldier. 

"Fine  smart  soldiers,  these  Highlanders,"  said 
the  major  as  we  passed  on;  "perfect  examples  of 
discipline  and  soldierly  spirit.  Take  that  cor- 
poral, for  instance." 

"Yes,  sir,"  I  answered,  looking  back  at  the 
erstwhile  Red  Maclsaac,  of  the  Colonists'  Special 
for  Berlin. 

When  on  a  dark  cold  night  at  the  end  of 
September  we  marched  out  of  camp  for  the  last 
time  we  had  learned  how  to  shoot  and  how  to 
march  with  a  pack,  and  had  also  acquired  the 
elements  of  discipline.  We  had  still  need  of  a 
long  schooling,  but  we  had  left  the  mob  spirit 
far  behind.  There  was  a  unity  of  company  and 
regiment.  It  remained  for  General  Alderson  to 
teach  us  the  unity  of  a  brigade  and  of  a  whole 
division. 

We  embarked  on  our  transport  in  the  morning, 
and  late  in  the  afternoon  began  to  steam  slowly 
down  the  St.  Lawrence.  Behind  us  lay  Quebec, 
the  gray  city  set  upon  a  rock,  towering  up  with 
its  ancient  walls  to  the  crowning  citadel,  where  a 
British  flag  waved  out  against  the  sunset  sky. 
These  were  the  same  ramparts  that  frowned 
upon  the  ships  of  Wolfe  on  a  September  long  ago. 
But  in  this  distant  autumn  twilight  the  scene 

14 


THE  MAKING  OF  THE  FIRST   CANADIANS 

was  changed,  and,  like  our  mother,  old  Quebec 
smiled  down  upon  us  as  we  sailed  away. 

Gaspe  Bay,  an  isolated  estuary  of  the  sea, 
presented  a  strange  sight  on  the  first  morning  of 
October,  1914.  On  shore  the  peaceful  hills  and 
white  habitations  of  the  French-Canadian  farm- 
ers appeared  as  distant  from  the  world  as  ever; 
but  in  the  bay  thirty-one  great  liners  lay  at 
anchor,  while  the  entrance  was  guarded  by  a 
fleet  of  battle-ships  and  cruisers. 

The  time  of  our  sailing  was  secret.  After  two 
days'  wait  the  signal  was  given,  and  in  column 
the  New  World  armada  passed  out  to  sea.  Once 
clear  of  the  land,  three  separate  columns  were 
formed,  moving  abreast  with  a  cruiser  at  the  head 
of  each  column. 

The  trip  across  occupied  fourteen  days,  and 
the  transports  were  buffeted  by  more  than  one 
autumnal  gale,  but  beyond  a  man  falling  over- 
board from  one  ship  and  being  s  picked  up  by 
the  next  there  was  no  mishap.  Our  fleet 
arrived  in  the  evening  off  Plymouth,  and 
during  the  night  pushed  down  the  sound  to 
the  naval  base  at  Devonport.  In  the  morn- 
ing we  found  our  slate-gray  liners  anchored 
safely  beside  the  gray  bulldogs  of  the  British 
Navy.  Our  demonstrative  American  cousins 
could  not  have  given  a  wilder  welcome  than 

15 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

that  which  was  vouchsafed  to  us  by  the  warm- 
hearted folk  of  Devon. 

There  followed  a  week  of  dizzy,  lurid  days  for 
the  two  old  naval  towns.  The  gay  riders  of  the 
West  and  the  bonnie  ne'er-do-wells  had  returned* 
and  they  celebrated  in  a  fitting  manner.  One 
old  Jack  Tar  said,  laughingly,  "It  looks  as  though 
they  had  turned  the  Zoological  Gardens  loose 
through  the  dock-yard  gates."  Kipling  said  that 
we  painted  Plymouth  pink,  but  that  is  putting  it 
mild.  We  painted  Plymouth  red,  as  red  as 
Louse  Town  in  Dawson  City  in  '98. 

Salisbury  Plains  will  ever  remain  a  nightmare 
for  us.  The  few  surviving  veterans  still  in  the 
front  line  speak  of  the  Plains  with  greatest  horror. 

On  Salisbury  Plains,  chastened  by  suffering, 
saddened  by  yearnings  for  home,  wounded  to  the 
quick  by  misunderstandings  with  our  English 
instructors,  tortured  by  the  vilest  winter  climate 
on  earth,  often  prostrated  by  sickness  of  the  body, 
or  by  deeper  sickness  of  the  spirit,  out  of  all  this 
man-breaking  and  heart-breaking  we  were  being 
hammered  and  wrought  into  an  army  unit. 
Gustave  Dore's  flesh-creeping  pictures  of  hell  are 
like  unto  my  memories  of  Salisbury  Plains.  But 
out  of  this  kaleidoscope  of  tragedies,  as  out  of 
hell  fire,  came  an  Iron  Division  for  service  in  an 
Iron  War. 

16 


THE  MAKING  OF  THE  FIRST   CANADIANS 

From  the  joyous  days  of  Plymouth  we  came  to 
a  bleak  moorland  miles  removed  from  any  city, 
where,  from  the  middle  of  October  to  the  follow- 
ing February,  we  learned  our  last  lessons.  It  was 
pouring  rain  the  night  we  arrived,  and  we  hardly 
missed  a  day's  rain  from  that  time  until  our 
departure. 

What  a  rude  contrast  from  that  wild  send-off 
from  Plymouth  at  midnight,  with  bands  and 
cheering  throngs  and  pretty  girls,  to  the  troop- 
train  on  the  siding  at  Market  Lavington  at 
3  a.m.,  our  regiment  beginning  a  ten-mile  route 
march  through  the  darkness  and  the  rain  to  our 
distant  camp.  Daylight  found  us  casting  re- 
proachful eyes  on  a  sad  and  sodden  landscape. 
The  sweet  dream  of  Plymouth  had  faded,  and  we 
struggled,  wet  and  weary,  with  tents  and  guy- 
ropes. 

Lieutenant-General    Alderson    was    intrusted 

with  the  final  task  in  the  making  of  the  First 

Canadians.     A  hard  rider  in  the  hunting-field,  a 

keen    sportsman,    a    deep    student    of    military 

science,   progressive   in   his   views,   firm   in   his 

discipline,  broadened  by  a  world-wide  experience, 

and    hardened    by    many    campaigns,    General 

Alderson  was  an  ideal  commander  for  Colonial 

troops. 

General  Alderson's  headquarters  were  situated 
2  17 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

in  a  small  house  known  as  the  Woodcock  Tavern 
in  the  heart  of  the  moorlands.  Outside  in  seas  of 
mud  the  cars  and  horses  of  the  headquarters 
staff  came  and  went,  while  out  over  the  desolate 
plains,  miles  apart,  the  camps  of  the  different 
brigades  stretched  out  their  sodden  tents,  while 
the  eternal  winds  and  rains  swept  over  the 
downs. 

Reveille  on  the  plains  was  no  gay  greeting  of 
the  dawn,  as  at  Val  Cartier.  Sad  as  a  funeral 
note,  over  the  patter  of  the  rain  and  the  sough 
of  the  winds,  the  imperious  bugles  called  us  to 
another  dark-drab  day.  No  matter  how  gloom- 
ily the  day  began,  dinner  always  found  us  gay, 
masters  of  our  spirits.  Hard  exercise  and  cease- 
less training  prevented  repining,  and  brought 
forth  strong  bodies  and  brave  spirits. 

One  day  during  an  arduous  maneuver  in 
filthy  weather  General  Alderson  rode  up  and 
addressed  our  brigade. 

"A  soldier's  life,"  he  said,  "is  one  of  extreme 
hardship  and  privation."  I  remember  how  that 
saying  came  to  me  a  week  later,  while  our  bat- 
talion was  carrying  out  a  scheme  in  night  opera- 
tions. I  was  stationed  with  my  platoon  on  a  high 
crest,  with  orders  to  await  the  arrival  of  the 
main  body.  From  midnight  until  3.30  a.m.  I 
waited,  crouching  behind  a  hedge,  while  a  hurri- 

18 


THE  MAKING  OF  THE  FIRST   CANADIANS 

cane  lashed  us  with  sheets  of  rain.  It  is  no  dis- 
credit to  my  Burberry  to  say  that  I  was  soaked 
to  the  skin.  We  marched  back  to  camp,  oozing 
and  shivering,  and,  joining  our  damp  blankets 
together,  we  lay  on  the  sodden  ground  and  were 
soon  dead  to  the  world.  Next  morning,  needless 
to  say,  our  knees  were  stiff,  hence  the  immediate 
necessity  of  a  long  route  march  to  work  out  chills 
and  rheumatism. 

Of  course  we  were  pioneers  in  that  early  winter 
of  1914,  and  as  such  we  bore  the  hardships  of 
inexperience  and  inadequate  equipment.  De- 
spite our  best  efforts,  an  epidemic  of  spinal 
meningitis,  due  to  the  life  that  we  were  living, 
broke  out  in  the  camp.  Those  were  the  saddest, 
bluest  days  that  I  experienced  in  my  two  and  a 
half  years  of  soldiering.  Every  day  I  could  look 
out  of  my  tent  into  the  melancholic  blur  of  mist 
and  rain  and  see  the  draped  gun-carriage  moving 
to  the  "Dead  March"  from  Saul,  while  one 
battalion  or  another  slowly  followed  their  com- 
rade to  his  grave. 

One  week  we  had  seventeen  deaths  in  our 
regiment.  Last  winter  when  I  was  on  the  Plains 
again  for  a  short  time,  for  practice  on  the  artillery 
ranges,  I  took  a  pilgrimage  to  the  Canadian 
Cemetery  at  Bulford  Manor,  where  four  hundred 
Canadians  of  the  first  division  lie  buried.     These 

19 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

were  our  casualties  in  the  bitterest  fight  that 
we  ever  fought. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  talk  in  those  days 
about  the  Canadians'  lack  of  discipline.  I  admit 
the  charge,  when  we  arrived  in  England,  but 
under  General  Alderson  we  soon  put  that  stigma 
under  our  feet. 

Many  wild  tales  are  told  of  the  exploits  of  our 
troops  in  London.  A  Canadian  bought  a  shil- 
ling's worth  of  cigarettes  in  the  Lester  Lounge. 
He  handed  the  waiter  a  one-pound  note  and 
waited  for  his  change,  which  was  not  forthcoming. 
So  he  whipped  out  his  six-shooter  and  proceeded 
to  shoot  the  heels  off  the  cockney  waiter's  shoes. 
The  unsophisticated-looking  Westerner  promptly 
received  his  change,  and  when  the  police  arrived 
on  the  scene  no  Canadians  were  to  be  found. 

Much  of  the  criticism  that  is  meted  out  to  us 
was  due  to  the  misunderstanding  of  opposite 
types.  Englishmen  could  not  see  their  time- 
honored  traditions  murdered  by  these  "bally 
Colonials"  without  registering  a  kick.  Old  army 
officers  were  shocked  at  the  sight  of  Canadian 
officers  and  rankers  rolling  about  London  arm 
in  arm.  These  good  English  officers  were  uncon- 
scious of  the  fact  that  in  Canada,  before  they 
donned  the  khaki,  these  two  chaps  were  simply 
Bill  and  Don,  and  now,  despite  the  fact  that  one 

20 


THE  MAKING  OF  THE  FIRST    CANADIANS 

wore  officer's  stars  and  the  other  a  corporal's 
stripes,  they  are  still  Bill  and  Don  to  each  other. 

The  gouty  old  squires  who  had  kicked  their 
sons  out  were  responsible  for  some  of  the  strict- 
ures against  us.  One  of  our  boys  who  had  been 
disinherited  got  leave  from  the  Plains  and  paid 
a  visit  to  his  boyhood  village  and  the  old  squire's 
home.     The  old  man,  still  sore,  exclaimed: 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir,  by  coming  back 
here?" 

"Oh,"  answered  the  incorrigible  one,  "I  just 
dropped  round  to  see  what  time  it  was  by  the 
town  clock.     Good  day." 

Some  of  a  later  division,  coming  after  the 
First  Canadians,  let  it  be  known  that  they  in- 
tended to  live  down  the  bad  name  which  we  had 
made  in  England.  An  old  friend  of  ours,  the 
Bishop  of  London,  kindly  replied,  "You  may  be 
able  to  live  down  the  name  which  the  First 
Canadians  have  made  in  England,  but  you  will 
have  a  task  living  up  to  the  name  which  they 
have  made  in  France." 

Long  since,  England  has  found  in  dealing  with 

her  citizen  armies  and  her  Colonial  troops  that 

old  things  have  passed  away.     The  Whitechapel 

loafer  who  joined  the  army  in  peace  days  for  a 

shilling   a   day   might   be   hammered   into   the 

automatic  Tommy  Atkins,  but  not  so  with  these 

21 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

free-will  volunteers.  We  could  not  pour  new 
wine  into  old  bottles,  and  we  could  not  make 
New  World  troops  into  Old  World  armies.  The 
truth  of  this  statement  needs  no  argument  in 
England  to-day. 

The  First  Canadians  mastered  well  the  lesson 
of  discipline  upon  Salisbury  Plains.  Two  months 
after  leaving  that  field  of  training  they  faced  the 
first  gas  attack  at  Ypres.  The  line  on  their  left 
flank  was  broken  for  five  miles,  and  for  three  days 
they  were  subjected  to  a  hellish  form  of  attack 
unknown  in  previous  military  experience.  But, 
unprepared  as  they  were,  they  linked  the  gap  in 
the  line  and  held.  Later,  Sir  John  French  said, 
"The  Canadians  saved  the  situation."  General 
Alderson  was  able  to  accomplish  what  he  did  with 
the  First  Canadians  at  Ypres  because  of  the 
Promethean  task  which  he  had  formerly  accom- 
plished in  England.  That  demiurgic  general 
had  welded  our  elements  of  blood  and  iron,  and 
fire  and  storm,  with  the  unbreakable  bands  of 
discipline.     Therefore,  our  line  held  at  Ypres. 

"Long  is  the  night  that  never  finds  the  day," 
and  finally  the  glad  news  came  that  we  were  going 
to  France.  The  gladdest  memory  of  our  history 
was  that  February  morning  when  we  shook  the 
mud  of  Salisbury  Plains  off  our  feet  and  in  col- 
umn of  route  filed  out  from  that  loathed  camp. 

22 


THE  MAKING  OF  THE  FIRST   CANADIANS 

All  hearts  beat  high,  for  the  epic  days  had  come 
again.  Going  to  France  in  those  days  was  a  high 
adventure.  History  was  in  the  making,  and  we 
were  off  to  make  it. 

We  sailed  from  Avonmouth  on  the  5th  of 
February  and  arrived  at  St.  Lazare  on  the  10th. 
Here  we  were  issued  with  fur  jackets  and  other 
necessities  for  winter  campaigning,  and,  with 
three  days'  iron  rations,  were  packed  on  board 
cattle-cars,  bound  up-country.  For  two  days  we 
crawled  across  France,  cramped  up  in  the  narrow 
cars.  Late  one  night  our  troop-train  pulled  into 
Hazebroke,  a  large  town  up-country  in  Flanders, 
serving  as  a  rail-head. 

It  was  long  after  dark  and  the  cold,  drizzling 
rain  was  falling  as  the  men  tumbled  out  of  the 
cars,  adjusted  Web-equipment,  knapsacks,  and 
rifles,  and  fell  in  at  the  points  of  assembly.  A 
few  sharp  orders,  and  the  battalions  were  briskly 
moving  off.  On  my  horse  that  night  I  galloped 
past  many  such  moving  battalions  and  long 
columns  of  guns  and  limbers.  These  were  the 
First  Canadians,  no  longer  a  rabble  or  a  mob,  but 
one  united  division,  moving  like  one  man  to  the 
appointed  place.  Before  us,  the  roar  of  the  guns 
and  the  scintillant  flight  of  star-shells,  and  the 
first  of  the  New  World  troops  had  come  to  take 
their  place  on  the  firing-line. 

23 


II 

FROM   THE   BASE   TO   THE   FIRING-LINE 

TIJST  after  the  retreat  from  Mons  a  British 
*-*  soldier  described  his  experience  in  France 
as  follows: 

"I  was  shot  off  the  transport  into  a  troop-train, 
and  from  there  into  skirmish  order,  and  the  next 
thing  I  knew  I  was  in  the  hospital  in  Blighty." 

The  new  American  troops  arriving  on  the 
fighting-line  to-day  will  have  no  such  swift  and 
breathless  transition.  By  slow  and  easy  stages 
they  will  pass  from  the  seaport  base  to  the  front- 
line trenches.  Their  progress  will  be  a  natural 
evolution,  and  their  approach  to  the  front  will 
mark  their  advancement  in  training.  The  ar- 
rival of  new  troops  in  the  line,  will  be  their 
graduation  from  school  war  to  real  war. 

On  reaching  France  from  America  the  trans- 
ports dock  at  a  seaport  base,  where  the  troops 
disembark.  The  Americans,  like  the  British, 
will  have  their  own  seaport  base,  and  with  the 
augmenting  of  her  strength  in  the  field  this  base 

24 


FROM  THE  BASE  TO  THE   FIRING-LINE 

will  become  more  and  more  an  American  center, 
until  it  will  be  transformed  into  a  veritable  port 
of  the  United  States  across  the  water. 

The  harbor  will  abound  with  American  patrol- 
boats.  American  landing-officers  will  swarm  the 
streets.  Transatlantic  liners  flying  the  Stars  and 
Stripes  will  be  seen  in  the  stream,  and,  by  strange 
irony,  ships  which  once  flew  the  German  flag 
will  be  landing  New  World  troops,  destined  for 
battle  to  rid  the  seas  of  the  curse  of  that  same 
flag  which  once  they  flew. 

Long  before  the  transport  arrives  a  convoy  of 
destroyers  take  her  under  their  guardian  care  and 
escort  her  into  port.  Far  out  at  sea  the  liner  en- 
counters her  protectors,  which  flash  about  her 
bow  and  stern  like  porpoises,  or  dart  away  toward 
the  faintest  presage  of  danger,  flying  back  swiftly 
again  to  the  side  of  their  ward,  and  thus  escorting 
her  safely  into  the  harbor. 

Shortly  after  the  transport  docks  the  work  of 
disembarkation  begins.  The  gang-planks  are 
run  out,  and  the  men  file  off  with  heavy  marching 
order  and  rifles.  They  fall  in  at  the  points  of 
assembly  and  go  swinging  over  the  cobblestone 
pier  and  up  into  the  town. 

The  marching  by  of  newly  arrived  troops  is  a 
familiar  sight  in  the  seaport  base.  In  a  steady 
and  unbroken  tide  the  manhood  of  England  has 

25 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

thus  flowed  for  months  through  these  sluice-gates 
toward  the  trenches.  Now  the  manhood  of 
America  is  flowing  in  a  similar  manner. 

To  the  military  staff  at  the  base  and  to  the 
French  citizenry  this  daily  arrival  of  new  troops 
is  a  common  sight.  But  to  the  troops  themselves 
it  is  an  epic  moment.  From  the  time  when  they 
first  thought  of  joining  the  colors,  through  all  the 
ardors  of  their  training,  with  its  many  changings 
and  shiftings,  they  ever  dreamed  of  the  day 
when  they  should  at  last  arrive  in  France.  As 
the  stolid  mass  of  men  in  khaki  swings  along,  its 
aspect,  so  coldly  aloof  and  impersonal,  is  the 
inverse  expression  of  the  leaping  excitements  and 
thrilling  impressions  within. 

Each  imperturbable  soldier  marching  along 
carries  a  living  drama  within  his  heart.  He  sees 
the  cold  gray  piles  of  this  Old  World  city  and 
these  monuments,  hoary  with  memories,  remind 
him  that  he,  too,  has  come  to  the  making  of  Old 
World  history.  This  is  the  threshold.  What 
has  the  future  for  him?  His  heart  leaps  as  the 
splendor  of  daring  and  adventure  allures  him, 
while  like  somber  shadows  there  steal  across  his 
mind  the  memories  of  home  and  loved  ones 
that  may  nevermore  be  seen. 

To  linger  about  a  seaport  base  in  France  is  to 
have  more  vividly  brought  home  to  one  the  awful 

26 


FROM  THE  BASE  TO  THE  FIRING-LINE 

carnage  of  this  struggle.  Shipload  after  shipload 
of  men  and  material  are  ever  discharging,  and 
trainloads  of  wreckage  are  ever  returning.  "We 
see  these  strong  men  who  have  just  arrived,  spick 
and  span  and  perfect  in  every  appearance,  mov- 
ing up  one  side,  while  down  the  other  come  the 
ambulances  laden  with  befouled  and  shattered 
humanity.  As  a  boy  in  the  pink  of  health 
swings  down  the  gang-plank  at  one  end  of  the 
pier  the  stretcher-bearers  are  carrying  another 
boy  now  limp  and  broken  up  the  gang-plank  to  a 
hospital  ship  at  the  other  end  of  the  pier. 

One  steamer  is  discharging  new  guns  and  lim- 
bers and  shining  equipment,  while  another  is 
loading  all  kinds  of  wreckage  which  the  salvage 
corps  has  gathered  from  the  field  of  battle — 
broken  gun-carriages,  torn  uniforms  caked  with 
mud  and  gore,  rusty  rifles,  worn  boots,  bayonets, 
filthy  blankets,  belts,  knapsacks,  shattered  shell- 
cases,  and  a  thousand  other  mute  reminders  of 
the  tragedy  of  war. 

From  the  seaport  base  the  newly  arrived 
troops  march  to  the  rest -camp,  situated 
several  miles  outside  of  the  town.  A  rest- 
camp  is  the  strangest  form  of  hostelry  imagin- 
able. A  great  camp  of  tents  and  huts,  afford- 
ing momentary  hospitality  to  the  troops  en 
route  to  the    front,  a  mammoth    hotel    where 

27 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

ten  thousand  may  arrive  in  the  night  and  move 
off  in  the  morning. 

The  commandant  of  the  rest-camp  at  Havre 
said  to  me  once:  "I'm  the  biggest  hotel-keeper 
in  the  world.  Last  night  I  was  the  host  to  nine 
regiments,  all  of  whom  were  registered  for  a 
period  of  less  than  twenty-four  hours.  One 
night  my  hotel  may  be  almost  empty,  and  the 
next  I  may  count  my  guests  by  the  thousands." 

At  the  rest-camp  the  troops  recover  from  the 
ardors  of  travel.  Moving  over  long  distances  in 
groups  of  a  thousand  men  is  far  more  exhausting 
than  the  uninitiated  would  think.  Civilian 
travel  is  exacting  enough,  but  to  move  with  a 
body  of  troops  means  infinitely  more  physical 
exertion,  with  endless  waitings,  and  marchings 
and  countermarchings. 

At  the  rest-camp  the  troops  are  issued  with 
trench  supplies  and  equipment.  If  it  is  winter, 
they  get  goatskin  body  jackets,  and,  parading 
in  this  rig,  they  resemble  a  mass  of  Arctic  ex- 
plorers. 

Before  a  regiment  moves  off  from  the  rest-camp 
the  colonel  often  seizes  the  occasion  to  say  a  few 
fitting  words  to  the  men.  The  short  speech  of 
a  Colonel  Clark,  commanding  a  battalion  of 
the  Argyll  and  Sutherland  Highlanders,  to  his 
kilted  men  at  the  rest-camp  at  Havre  in  1915 

28 


FROM  THE  BASE  TO  THE  FIRING-LINE 

still  lingers  with  me.  The  men  were  drawn  up 
in  formation  for  divine  worship.  When  the 
chaplain  had  ended  his  service  Colonel  Clark,  a 
tall,  grizzled  Highland  chieftain,  stood  forth  and 
said: 

"Men,  we  are  about  to  take  our  place  as  a  part 
of  that  imperial  living  wall  that  stands  between 
the  Mother  Country  and  her  foes.  It  is  an  honor 
and  a  privilege  for  us  to  bear  arms  in  this  cause. 
My  counsel  to  you  for  the  struggles  ahead  is 
expressed  in  two  verses  of  Scripture:  first,  'Quit 
you  like  men,  be  strong,'  and,  second,  'Do  all  to 
the  glory  of  God.'" 

Later,  I  saw  that  gay  and  gallant  regiment  with 
pipes  and  bonnets  swinging  by,  and,  several 
months  after,  the  familiar  face  of  Colonel  Clark, 
appearing  among  the  dead  heroes  in  the  Roll  of 
Honor,  recalled  to  my  mind  his  stirring  words  to 
his  regiment  on  departing.  The  Scots  are  always 
sermon-tasters,  they  have  many  good  preachers, 
but  the  thousand-odd  men  of  that  Argyll  and 
Sutherland  battalion  never  heard  a  finer  ser- 
mon than  those  succinct  and  pointed  words  of 
their  commanding  officer. 

From  the  rest-camp  the  men  march  to  the 
railway  station,  where  they  entrain  for  points  up- 
country.  The  men  go  in  cattle-cars,  a  most 
loathsome  form  of  travel,  especially  on  a  long 

29 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

journey.  Traffic  over  the  railway  is  so  heavy 
that  trains  cannot  be  run  fast  on  account  of 
destruction  to  the  permanent  way.  The  troop- 
trains,  therefore,  crawl  along  as  though  they  were 
drawn  by  mules  instead  of  locomotive. 

The  region  between  the  seaboard  base  and  the 
front  comes  under  the  nomenclature  "Lines  of 
Communication,"  referred  to  as  "L.  of  C." 

"L.  of  C."  is  a  most  important  phrase  in  war. 
It  means  the  artery  for  supply  and  replenishment 
of  all  men  and  materials.  Rail  communication 
extends  to  a  place  well  up-country,  just  outside 
the  zone  of  fire.  This  place  is  known  as  the  rail- 
head. Beyond  the  rail-head  communication  is 
kept  up  by  motor  lorries,  and  beyond  that  by 
horse  transport.  Before  a  big  battle  the  strain 
on  the  lines  of  communication  is  tremendous. 
Realizing  the  importance  of  railway  communica- 
tion, the  British  have  recently  been  running  up 
several  new  and  independent  lines  from  the  sea- 
board. It  takes  a  complete  line  of  railway  to 
feed  an  effective  push.  If  in  the  future  we  are  to 
make  several  thrusts  simultaneously,  like  the  one 
on  the  Somme,  it  will  require  an  independent  rail- 
way line  for  each  thrust.  It  is  probable  that  the 
Americans,  like  the  British,  will  have  their  own 
lines  of  communication.  Let  those  who  are  im- 
patient as  to  the  length  of  time  taken  for  Ameri- 

30 


FROM  THE  BASE  TO  THE  FIRING-LINE 

can  troops  to  get  into  the  fighting  bear  in  mind 
the  problems  of  the  lines  of  communication. 

The  American  troops  moving  up-country  do 
not  go  direct  from  the  rest-camp  to  the  trenches. 
They  are  taken  to  a  training-area  situated  some- 
where on  the  line  of  communication.  In  such  a 
place  many  of  the  New  World  troops  are  now 
learning  their  last  lessons. 

The  training-area  behind  the  trenches  repre- 
sents the  soldier's  post-graduate  course.  He  has 
already  passed  through  many  courses,  but  here 
he  receives  his  last  and  most  exacting  instruc- 
tions. Vast  areas  of  country  are  here  hired  from 
the  French,  and  over  this  territory  the  troops 
maneuver  in  sham  battle.  All  the  contingencies 
of  real  war  are  staged  on  the  training  -  area. 
Mines  are  sprung,  craters  are  occupied,  attacks 
of  poison  gas  are  launched,  advances  are  made 
over  all  kinds  of  country  against  all  conceivable 
obstructions,  and  every  form  of  attack  and  de- 
fense is  practised. 

Every  regiment  has  its  men  trained  for  special 
tasks,  and  these  all  receive  finishing  touches  in 
their  appointed  line.  Machine-gunners,  bomb- 
ers, and  Stokes-gunners  are  informed  as  to  the 
latest  tricks  in  their  trade,  and  experts  just  down 
from  the  front  reveal  to  these  coming  artists  of 
the  Suicide  Club  the  deeper  secrets  of  then  art. 

31 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

Life  on  the  training-area  is  the  most  rigorous 
and  exacting  of  all  the  period  of  a  soldier's  ap- 
prenticeship. The  men  are  trained  to  inarch 
the  longest  distances  with  the  greatest  weight. 
They  are  bivouacked  in  the  open  in  all  kinds  of 
weather  and  subjected  to  many  privations  and 
hardships.  It  is  with  a  sigh  of  relief  that  a  man 
dons  his  pack  for  the  last  time  and  shoulders  his 
rifle  and  marches  off,  a  hard  soldier,  trained  to 
the  minute,  and  ready  for  the  direst  tests  of  war. 

Situated  on  the  lines  of  communication  are 
what  we  may  call  the  gay  towns,  places  where 
the  troops  out  of  the  line  for  a  holiday  rendezvous 
for  a  good  time.  Some  of  these  gay  towns  are 
gardens  of  unadulterated  delight  to  the  chaps 
who  have  had  for  days  naught  but  the  drab 
drudgery  of  the  trenches.  Every  human  being 
craves  a  change  and  recreation.  Even  the  fight- 
ing-man must  have  a  break,  and  he  finds  it  in  the 
gay  towns. 

Men  who  live  a  strong  life  in  the  open  do  not 
take  their  pleasures  mildly.  They  hit  it  up  with 
considerable  gusto.  Gold-miners  just  back  from 
the  creeks  into  Dawson  City,  cowboys  arriving 
in  town  after  months  on  the  ranges,  and  sailors 
ashore  from  whaling  cruises,  celebrate  their  ar- 
rival by  "playing  on  the  red."  So  it  is  with  the 
boys  just  out  of  the  line.     They  make  these 

32 


FROM  THE  BASE  TO  THE  FIRING-LINE 

erstwhile  quiet  French  towns  "sit  up  and  take 
notice."  They  always  bring  a  strong  breeze 
with  them,  or,  as  Sergeant  Hell-fire  MacDougal 
used  to  say,  "While  we're  in  town  there's  some- 
thing doing  every  minute." 

Leave,  the  great  event  in  a  soldier's  career  in 
France,  may  only  come  once  in  a  year.  It  is  sup- 
posed to  occur  oftener,  but  he  is  fortunate  if  he 
gets  nine  days  out  of  twelve  months  in  England. 
But  while  leave  is  generally  so  remote,  there  are 
always  the  nearer  joys  of  a  day  off  and  a  jam- 
boree in  one  of  the  gay  towns. 

Let  some  of  the  long-faced  kill-joys  with  every 
means  of  pleasure  and  yet  never  a  sign  of  gladness 
regard  our  fighting  lads,  seizing  an  opportunity 
for  recreation  and  enjoyment,  and  crowding 
every  precious  moment  with  the  pure  joy  of  life. 
When  they  set  out  for  a  good  time  they  do  the 
job  perfectly.  One  must  not  imagine  that  I  am 
referring  to  carousals  and  bacchanalias.  Such 
things  have  been  known  to  occur  in  the  army,  but 
the  gay  town,  despite  the  fact  that  the  feverish 
tide  flows  high,  is  always  conscious  of  a  certain 
overlord  known  as  the  A.  P.  M.,  who,  with 
sundry  associates,  preserves  that  air  of  decorum 
which  is  fitting  in  well-disciplined  armies. 

Chaps  who  are  "going  wide"  soon  find  them- 
selves in  the  toils,  and  it  is  a  far  more  terrible 

3  33 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

thing  to  come  under  the  ban  of  martial  law  at  the 
front  than  it  is  at  home.  There  is  a  certain 
leniency  to  the  evil-doer  in  England,  but  mar- 
tial law  is  adamantine  in  France. 

Many  tales  are  told  in  Great  Britain  of  the 
incorrigibles  that  come  from  the  Colonies,  es- 
pecially from  Australia  and  Canada.  One  hears 
no  such  tales  in  France.  The  wildest  spirit  must 
become  tractable  over  there  or  a  firing-party  ends 
his  story. 

Amiens  and  St.  Omer  are  typical  of  the  gay 
towns.  St.  Omer  was  at  one  time  the  general 
headquarters  of  the  British  armies.  Here  dwelt 
Sir  John  French  and  staff.  On  a  quiet  house  on 
a  certain  side-street  the  British  flag  flew  by  day 
and  a  red-and-blue  light  shone  by  night.  This 
was  the  sign  of  the  commander-in-chief,  and  in 
years  to  come  people  will  point  to  that  house, 
just  as  they  do  to  the  house  which  Wellington 
occupied  at  Waterloo. 

If  G.  H.  Q.  has  departed  from  St.  Omer  the 
gay  life  still  throbs  in  its  streets.  In  its  res- 
taurants, its  jardins,  its  open  squares,  one  still 
sees  throngs  of  bright  faces,  men  from  a  bare 
existence  who  have  come  back  for  a  moment  to 
snatch  the  sweetness  of  civilization.  Their  very 
attitude  as  they  sit  at  tea,  as  they  scan  the  hotel 
menu,  as  they  lean  against  the  American  bar  in 


FROM  THE  BASE  TO  THE  FIRING-LINE 

the  Grand  Place  or  saunter  about  the  park  shows 
that  they  are  exhilarated  in  every  moment.  It 
often  seems  as  though  a  man's  enjoyment  were 
inversely  proportionate  to  his  opportunity  for 
the  same.  The  more  straitened  the  existence 
the  more  keen  seems  its  appreciation  of  happiness 
when  it  arrives. 

St.  Omer  is  purely  a  British  center.  French 
troops  are  rarely  seen  there.  Amiens,  on  the 
other  hand,  is  a  gay  town  where  French  and 
British  alike  mingle  in  the  merry  throngs. 

Last  fall  when  the  Somme  push  was  on  Amiens, 
lying  about  twenty  miles  behind  the  fighting- 
area,  was  supposed  to  be  the  gayest  town  in 
France.  The  air  of  Amiens  at  that  time  always 
reminded  one  of  Byron's  description  of  Brussels 
when  he  says: 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gathered  then 
Her  beauty  and  her  chivalry. 

I  was  in  Paris  last  fall  for  a  couple  of  days,  but 
the  French  capital  seemed  tame  compared  to  the 
zest  of  life  which  I  had  just  before  experienced 
in  the  provincial  town  which  served  as  the 
rendezvous  for  our  merrymaking. 

Amiens  is  a  splendid  town,  with  a  historic 
cathedral,  fine  shops  and  buildings,  and  many 

35 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

attractions  to  the  pleasure-seeker.  One  Sunday 
afternoon  in  September  when  I  arrived  in  the 
town  with  a  pal  it  seemed  to  me  that  Amiens 
was  the  most  delightful  place  that  I  had  ever 
seen  on  earth.  Lousy  and  wet  in  rain  and  mud, 
I  had  been  lying  that  morning  in  the  most  un- 
wholesome area  beyond  Pozieres  Cemetery.  But 
that  was  my  day  off,  and  now  in  the  afternoon  I 
was  clothed  anew,  and  drinking  in  every  moment 
like  sparkling  wine.  I  swept  into  this  glorious 
town  on  board  a  motor-lorry.  The  difference 
between  the  morning  and  the  afternoon  seemed 
like  the  difference  between  hell  and  heaven.  It 
was  this  sudden  contrast,  of  course,  that  rendered 
my  appreciation  so  poignant. 

My  pal  and  I  were  worse  than  two  kiddies  just 
released  from  school.  We  rushed  against  the 
crowds  on  the  boulevard,  stemming  the  throngs 
with  glee.  We  darted  into  one  cafe"  and  out 
again,  and  passed  through  a  cinematograph  show 
just  as  quickly.  No  place  could  contain  our 
exuberant  spirits.  Everybody  on  the  streets 
and  in  the  parks  seemed  to  feel  just  as  irre- 
pressible. We  encountered  several  friends  and 
found  that  their  spirits  were  just  as  effervescent 
as  ours. 

At  night  in  the  swellest  cafe  we  partook  of  the 
finest  which  they  could  offer.     Every  one  in  that 

36 


FROM  THE   BASE  TO  THE  FIRING-LINE 

cafe  that  night  had  the  aspect  of  bringing  with 
him  to  his  meal  a  relish  which  no  chef  could 
give. 

Midnight  found  us  outside  the  barriers  of 
Amiens,  slogging  along  back  to  the  front.  No 
friendly  motor-lorry  picked  us  up,  and  we  had 
to  cover  the  many  miles  between  Amiens  and 
Albert  on  foot,  and  then  we  had  another  mile 
to  our  wagon-lines.  Dawn  found  us  crawling 
into  our  sleeping-bags  dead  tired,  but  satisfied. 

The  last  link  in  the  chain  between  the  base 
and  the  firing-line  we  may  call  billets.  Billets 
are  generally  situated  in  the  houses  and  build- 
ings of  a  shattered  town  on  the  fringes  of  the  zone 
of  fire.  One  who  has  come  this  far  has  arrived 
in  the  unhealthy  area.  Gaping  shell-holes,  fallen 
roofs,  and  shattered  walls  bear  witness  to  the  fact 
that  one  is  within  range  from  which  his  foe  may 
strike. 

At  any  time  the  momentary  peace  of  the  place 
may  be  broken  by  whirring  sounds  and  crashings 
in  the  side-streets.  "Silent  Lizzies"  from  the 
distant  long-range  guns  of  the  foe  at  regular  in- 
tervals may  come  with  dread  destruction. 

To  be  shelled  in  billets  is  rather  a  nasty  ex- 
perience. To  those  who  are  dedicated  to  the 
safety  corps  jobs  behind  the  lines  it  is  a  terrifying 
event,  but  to  the  seasoned  infantryman  it  arouses 

37 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

more  of  disgust  than  fear.  "Being  killed  by  a 
Silent  Lizzie  back  at  billets  is  like  being  run  over 
by  a  hearse  or  dying  a  natural  death.  If  a  man's 
hit  by  a  shell  back  there  God  must  have  meant 
'im  to  die.  That's  all,"  declared  one  philosophic 
Tommy. 


Ill 

WITH   THE   ROARING   GUNS 

Thank  God,  they  come! 
The  guns!    The  guns! 

rip  HE  artillery  is  the  last  dashing  phase  of  the 
^  war  game.  For  the  cavalry  and  the  infan- 
try the  elan  of  old-time  combat  has  passed,  but 
the  glory  of  Mars  still  lingers  with  the  guns. 

He  is  a  slow  and  timorous  spirit  indeed  who 
does  not  feel  a  quickening  of  the  pulse  as  he  be- 
holds a  battery  of  horse  artillery  going  by  at  the 
gallop,  "With  steeds  that  neither  gods  nor  man 
can  hold,  and  screams  that  drive  your  innards 
cold." 

War  in  the  front-line  trenches  to-day  is  less 
glorious  than  a  slaughter-house  in  Chicago.  But 
to  stand  in  the  darkness  of  the  night  behind  a 
battery,  listening  to  the  sighing  of  the  winds 
and  the  rustling  of  the  trees,  then  out  of  silence 
to  hear  a  voice  imperious  and  sharp  ring  out, 
"Battery  fire,"  and  to  see  the  lightnings  leap 
and  feel  the  earth  reverberate,  is  a  memorable 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

experience.  It  is  as  though  one  had  heard  and 
seen  the  mighty  Jove  let  loose  the  thunders. 

For  the  poor  infantrymen,  crouching  like 
hunted  beasts  under  the  crashing  parapet  of  the 
front  line,  there  is  little  of  splendor  in  modern  war. 
But  back  with  the  guns,  to  hear  a  quiet  voice 
directing  fire,  and  to  look  out  as  from  a  height 
upon  the  storm,  to  behold  far  and  wide  across  the 
night  that  white  and  iridescent  line  where  star- 
shells  flame  and  Verey  rockets  flash,  where  red 
signals  of  distress  call  out  through  bursting 
clouds  of  shrapnel,  to  see  and  hear  all  this  is  to 
feel  the  thrill  of  battle. 

That  trail  of  iridescent  white  is  leaping  hell  for 
the  men  who  hold  the  trenches.  But  for  the 
gunners  who  loosen  the  lightnings  it  is  still  re- 
plete with  the  splendor  of  war.  Lord  Nelson  at 
the  battle  of  Copenhagen,  when  the  mast  was 
splintered  beside  him,  said,  "We  may  be  dead  in 
a  minute,  but  I  wouldn't  be  elsewhere  for 
thousands."  This  is  the  feeling  at  the  guns, 
where  over  death  and  chaos  the  voice  of  man 
still  holds  the  mastery. 

To  an  old  artilleryman  the  gun  possesses  a 
soul,  a  soul  that  speaks  for  him.  In  the  rage  of 
battle  the  voice  of  the  guns  is  the  voice  of  rage 
for  the  men  who  serve  them. 

For  two  years  I  moved  up  and  down  the  various 

40 


WITH    THE   ROARING    GUNS 

portions  of  our  line  in  France,  ever  learning  more 
of  our  beastly  foe,  until  the  knowledge  of  their 
atrocities  produced  in  my  soul,  not  a  mere 
spirit  of  opposition,  but  a  flaming  passion. 

On  the  fifteenth  day  of  September,  1916,  it 
wasn't  somebody  else's  quarrel;  it  was  my  own 
fight.  With  me  were  a  group  of  the  old  First 
Canadian  artillery  drivers,  every  single  one  of 
whom  had  a  personal  hatred  in  his  soul  for  the 
Huns.  We  were  moving  up  with  ammunition 
for  our  greatest  bombardment  on  the  Somine. 
Imagine,  then,  the  music  to  our  ears  as  we  tore 
over  the  last  crest  and  heard  the  unbroken  voice 
of  a  thousand  guns  speaking  down  Sausage  Val- 
ley. It  was  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and 
pitch  dark,  but  the  long  valley  itself  was  one 
continual  stream  of  leaping  lightning.  Over  a 
thousand  guns  were  massed  there  that  morning, 
and  every  gun  was  firing  at  white  heat. 

At  first  far  away,  like  distant  surf,  I  heard  the 
bombardment.  But  as  I  came  over  the  top  of 
each  successive  hill  the  sound  grew  louder,  and 
as  I  rode  my  horse  over  the  last  crest  and  Sausage 
Valley  burst  out  before  me,  it  seemed  that  the 
whirlwinds  of  thunder  would  sweep  me  from  my 
saddle. 

For  a  moment  I  was  dazed  by  the  awful  shock 
of  noises.     Then  the  meaning  of  it  all  flashed 

41 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

upon  me,  and  I  was  happy — a  creature  of  the 
very  storm  itself.  This  was  England's  answer 
to  the  Hun,  our  voice  to  the  Beast.  From  the 
smoking  chimneys  of  our  arsenals  to  the  reeking 
mouths  of  our  guns  we  had  one  spirit,  and 
now  down  Sausage  Valley  with  an  unbroken  voice 
that  spirit  spoke. 

The  rapid-fire  18-pounders  were  massed  with 
quick  staccato ;  60-pounders  spoke  with  the  crack 
of  a  giant  whiplash;  9.2  and  12  inch  howitzers 
bayed  like  bloodhounds  in  hell;  while  the  naval 
guns  behind  added  their  roar  to  the  diapason  of 
battle.  Altogether,  blended  in  one  voice,  this 
was  our  challenge  to  the  German  Song  of  Hate. 

The  picture  of  Sausage  Valley  on  the  Somme, 
as  it  stretched  out  before  me  that  morning,  was 
my  most  splendid  spectacle  of  all  this  war;  it  was 
a  spectacle  of  the  glory  of  the  guns. 

Few  realize  that  modern  artillery  in  the  field 
still  thrills  with  war's  romance.  It  is  the  aim  of 
this  chapter  to  show  something  of  that  dashing 
side  of  war  and  to  convey  some  idea  of  the  day's 
work  for  the  servants  of  the  guns. 

There  are  three  different  branches  of  artillery — 
light,  siege,  and  heavy.  With  the  light  guns  one 
sees  the  most  adventure,  for  it  is  fullest  of  danger 
and  dash.  The  siege  artillery  includes  the  howit- 
zers above  the  4.5.     The  4.5  is  included  in  the 

42 


WITH    THE   ROARING    GUNS 

light  artillery.  The  difference  between  a  how- 
itzer and  an  ordinary  field-gun  is  that  the  how- 
itzer may  be  fired  at  a  higher  angle  and  the  charge 
may  be  lessened  so  as  to  cause  a  steep  angle  of 
descent.  The  howitzer  is  used  chiefly  against 
intrenchments  and  redoubts  with  strong  over- 
head protection.  Where  a  field-gun  with  a  maxi- 
mum charge  would  pierce  through,  a  howitzer 
bursts  in  from  the  top.  It  is,  therefore,  an  ideal 
gun  against  intrenchments  and  overhead  de- 
fenses. 

The  heavy  artillery  is  made  up  of  the  long- 
range  naval  guns  of  heavy  caliber.  They  are 
used  to  take  on  distant  targets  far  behind  the 
enemy's  lines.  I  saw  a  battery  of  6-inch  naval 
guns  in  action  one  day  near  Albert,  or,  to  be 
more  exact,  I  felt  them  in  action.  I  was  riding 
my  horse  in  front  of  the  battery  and  did  not 
notice  the  long  barrel  pointing  high  into  the  air 
until  there  came  a  report  with  a  whir  over  my 
head  and  a  concussion  that  nearly  laid  me  on  the 
ground. 

For  a  moment  I  strained  my  ear  to  the  whir 
of  the  shell,  and  in  imagination  I  followed  the 
great  projectile  until  it  crashed  into  some  peace- 
ful headquarters  town  far  behind  the  Boche 
trenches,  perhaps  causing  consternation  to  a 
German  general  and  his  staff,  or  perhaps  burst- 

43 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

ing  on  the  crossroads  amidst  a  group  of  ordnance 
people  who  esteemed  themselves  miles  outside 
of  danger. 

We  call  the  shells  fired  by  the  great  naval  guns 
"Silent  Lizzies"  because  they  pass  with  such 
high  velocity  that  one  hardly  hears  them  in  their 
flight.  Like  a  bolt  from  the  blue,  in  places  that 
preen  themselves  on  their  immunity  from  shell- 
fire,  the  Silent  Lizzie  may  burst  with  sudden  and 
awful  havoc. 

One  hears  a  good  deal  about  the  15-inch  guns 
along  the  line,  but  one  never  sees  them,  and  they 
are  rarely  heard.  They  are  moved  up  and  down 
on  a  railroad,  and  are  situated  so  far  behind  as  to 
be  the  envy  of  all  the  men  on  the  front  line.  One 
often  hears  those  who  are  sick  of  the  trenches 
declare,  "In  the  next  war  I'm  going  to  join  the 
fifteen-inch  guns." 

In  the  Ypres  salient  last  year,  whenever  the 
Germans  bombarded  the  town  of  Poperinghe,  as 
was  their  habit,  we  always  got  busy  with  our 
15-inch  naval  gun  in  reply.  This  15-inch  gun 
was  laid  on  a  German  general's  headquarters 
miles  behind  the  trenches.  A  few  shots  from  our 
Silent  Lizzie  always  caused  Fritz  to  cease  bom- 
barding Poperinghe,  bearing  witness  to  the  ac- 
curacy of  our  long-distance  ranging,  Fritz,  by 
his   sudden   ceasing   of   fire,   mutely   imploring, 

44 


WITH    THE   ROARING    GUNS 

"Please  don't  fire  any  more  of  those  awful  things 
at  my  general,  and  I  won't  fire  any  more  at  the 
women  in  Poperinghe." 

With  a  battery  in  action  there  are  three  dis- 
tinct zones  of  operation:  first,  the  ammunition 
column;  second,  the  guns;  third,  the  observation 

post. 

The  Ammunition  Column 

The  supply  of  ammunition  to  the  guns  is  a 
task  of  crucial  importance.  The  issues  of  battle 
depend  as  much  on  the  proper  supply  of  shells 
as  upon  the  skilful  handling  of  the  guns. 

The  ammunition  comes  up  from  the  seaboard 
base  by  train.  It  is  delivered  at  the  rail-head  of 
the  army  to  motor-lorries,  by  which  it  is  con- 
veyed to  the  ammunition  dump,  situated  on  the 
fringes  of  the  zone  of  shell-fire. 

From  the  ammunition  dump  the  shells  are  de- 
livered direct  to  the  guns.  The  heavy  stuff  is 
hauled  by  motor-lorry,  while  the  light  artillery 
keep  up  their  supply  by  means  of  horse  transport. 
Before  a  big  battle  an  unmistakable  evidence  of 
the  coming  storm  is  the  road  blocked  with  am- 
munition limbers  moving  in  one  continuous 
stream  toward  the  guns. 

When  a  field  battery  is  situated  far  forward  in 
a  position  of  difficult  approach  all  kinds  of  ob- 
stacles have  to  be  overcome  to  get  there.     Some- 

45 


THE   REAL   FRONT 

times  the  ground  is  so  bad  in  wet  weather  that 
it  is  impossible  to  take  limbers  through,  as  they 
become  mired  on  the  way.  On  such  occasions 
the  shells  are  taken  through  by  pack-saddle. 
Sleds  are  sometimes  used  over  the  mud.  Trench 
tramways  also  serve  as  an  expedient. 

If  a  battery  is  situated  in  a  position  the  ap- 
proaches to  which  are  under  observation  of  the 
enemy,  the  hauling  of  ammunition  must  be  done 
at  night.  Moving  across  an  unknown  country  in 
the  inky  blackness,  where  the  roads  are  obliter- 
ated and  the  ground  pocked  with  shell-holes,  with 
a  long  column  of  horses  and  limbers,  is  a  baffling 
task  for  the  officer  in  charge. 

Sometimes  in  desperate  straits  the  order  comes 
to  rush  ammunition  through  to  the  guns  in  day- 
light under  observation.  A  veritable  Balaclava 
charge  ensues,  with  the  wreckage  of  horses  and 
limbers  and  gallant  drivers  strewn  along  the  way. 
In  a  place  known  as  Death  Valley,  on  the  Somme, 
last  fall,  the  artillery  drivers  on  several  occasions 
made  a  grueling  hell-for-leather  charge  in  the 
face  of  the  enemy's  guns  that  equaled  that  of  the 

light  brigade. 

At  the  Guns 

The  guns  are  generally  situated  a  mile  or  two 
behind  the  trenches.  The  heavy  guns  are  often 
at  a  greater  distance. 

46 


WITH    THE   ROARING    GUNS 

One  of  the  most  important  things  in  a  good 
gun  position  is  concealment.  Woods  and  groves 
of  trees  always  make  ideal  hiding-places  for  bat- 
teries. Sometimes  they  are  in  the  open,  behind 
a  crest.  A  trellis-work  of  wire  covered  with 
leaves  is  often  erected  for  overhead  concealment 
from  aeroplanes. 

Batteries  of  howitzers,  with  high-angle  fire, 
may  be  placed  in  all  kinds  of  unlikely  places,  as 
there  is  no  trouble  for  them  in  clearing  the  crest. 
I  saw  a  battery  of  howitzers  in  a  farm-yard  cov- 
ered with  tarpaulin  when  not  in  use.  In  that 
position  they  were  practically  immune  from 
observation.  When  in  action  they  would  merely 
shoot  over  the  roof  of  the  barn.  The  poor  barn 
had  been  shelled  over  so  much  that  it  required 
the  reinforcement  of  many  steel  rails  to  prevent  it 
from  collapsing. 

The  greatest  precaution  must  be  taken  at 
the  guns  to  prevent  the  enemy  from  observ- 
ing their  position.  The  science  of  conceal- 
ment is  now  a  fine  art.  One  could  pass  over 
a  country  bristling  with  guns  and  never  dream 
that  there  was  a  battery  in  the  vicinity  until, 
without  any  warning,  they  start  to  pop  off 
in  every  direction.  Such  sudden  surprises  are 
most  disconcerting  to  one  who  is  not  ac- 
quainted in  that  region,  as  he  does  not  know 

47 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

whether  he  is  in  front  of  or  behind  the  wicked 
creatures. 

Flash-screens  made  of  canvas  are  erected  at  a 
distance  in  front  of  the  guns  to  conceal  their 
flash  from  the  enemy  at  night. 

The  sight  of  an  aeroplane  over  a  battery  posi- 
tion causes  immediate  cessation  of  all  movement. 
From  a  funk  hole  one  watches  the  enemy's  plane 
with  apprehensive  eye.  If  he  detects  the  bat- 
tery, it  means  a  living  hell  for  the  gunners. 

Being  shelled  out  of  a  battery  is  a  distressing 
experience.  The  enemy's  guns  are  registered  ac- 
curately on  the  battery  position  by  aeroplane. 
One  may  hear  the  whir  of  a  few  shells,  never 
dreaming  that  they  are  scientifically  searching 
for  him.  When  the  registration  has  been  ac- 
curately completed,  an  exact  record  of  the  ranges 
and  deflections  is  kept.  Some  quiet  night  the 
doomed  battery  awakens  in  terror  to  realize  the 
fact  that  its  fate  is  sealed. 

The  lines  of  fire  are  laid  out  by  an  officer  on  a 
map  by  a  system  of  triangulation.  A  fixed  aim- 
ing-point is  picked  out  on  the  base  line,  and  all 
orders  are  given  as  so  many  degrees  right  or  left 
of  the  aiming-point.  During  the  hours  of  dark- 
ness a  night  light  is  hung  in  front  of  the  guns  to 
serve  the  same  function  as  the  aiming-point  by 
day. 

48 


WITH    THE    ROARING    GUNS 

In  registering  the  guns  by  aeroplane  the  ob- 
server flies  to  a  position  from  which  he  can  com- 
mand a  view  of  the  target  and  siguals  back  by 
wireless  that  he  is  in  a  position  of  readiness  for 
observation.  The  wireless  on  the  ground  an- 
swers "No.  1  gun  firing,"  and  a  few  seconds  later 
the  officer  in  the  aeroplane  observes  the  burst 
of  No.  1  shell.  He  orders  the  corrections  accord- 
ing to  a  prearranged  clock  system,  and  thus 
finally  directs  the  gun  onto  the  target.  I  have 
seen  a  gun  being  registered  by  aeroplane  make 
the  target  on  the  third  shot,  which,  of  course,  is 
phenomenal  registering. 

The  daily  round  at  the  guns  in  quiet  seasons  is 
rather  monotonous.  There  must  not  be  any  ex- 
cessive movement,  for  fear  of  disclosing  the  posi- 
tion, and  in  the  dark  gun-pits  and  holes  in  the 
ground  the  hours  drag  heavily.  In  the  front  line 
there  is  an  air  of  expectancy,  but  at  the  guns 
one  misses  this.  I  always  enjoyed  the  days  I 
spent  in  the  front  trenches  as  forward  observing 
officer,  looking  forward  to  them  as  a  relief  from 
the  monotony  of  life  at  the  guns. 

The  orderly  officer  of  the  battery  inspects  the 
sights  of  each  gun,  once  by  night  and  once  by 
day,  to  see  that  they  are  laid  correctly  on  the 
SOS  targets,  ready  for  any  emergency. 

When  not  in  action  the  gunners  are  generally 

4  49 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

busy  keeping  gun-pits  and  dugouts  in  condition, 
erecting  new  or  stronger  overhead  protection, 
perfecting  concealment,  or  adding  to  their  do- 
mestic comfort.  It  is  wonderful  what  labor  and 
inventiveness  will  accomplish  when  it  sets  itself 
to  making  "a  happy  home"  underground. 

There  are  many  different  tasks  assigned  to  the 
guns  in  the  day's  work.  In  the  morning  they 
may  have  a  job  cutting  wire  for  the  infantry, 
who  are  going  over  for  a  raid  or  an  attack.  They 
may  be  called  upon  to  retaliate  on  certain  vul- 
nerable positions  of  the  enemy  in  reply  to  a 
strafe  which  he  is  giving  our  infantry.  If  a 
barrage  or  curtain  of  fire  is  being  kept  up  on 
enemy's  back  roads  to  prevent  the  bringing  up 
of  supplies  or  ammunition,  one  battery  may  take 
on  the  job  at  schedule  time,  to  be  relieved  again 
by  another  battery  later  on.  This  continual 
keeping  up  of  a  barrage  around  a  certain  place 
effectively  shuts  that  place  off  from  all  outside 
communication. 

In  the  town  of  Combles  last  fall  we  found  the 
Huns  starved  to  death  in  the  streets,  no  rations 
having  been  able  to  penetrate  our  barrage  for  days. 

The  bombardment  is  a  time  of  intense  excite- 
ment and  activity  at  the  guns.  A  4.5  howitzer 
battery,  to  which  I  was  attached  in  the  Ypres 
salient   in    1916,    fired    three   thousand    rounds 

50 


WITH    THE    ROARING    GUNS 

between  7  a.  m.  and  the  following  1.30  a.  m. 
This  was  at  the  time  that  the  Canadians  retook 
Sanctuary  Wood,  which  they  had  lost  a  short 
time  before.  The  major  was  called  out  at  night 
for  a  conference  at  group  headquarters;  on  re- 
turning he  announced,  "We've  got  a  stiff  day 
ahead  to-morrow;  three  thousand  rounds  is  our 
assignment."  The  continual  shock  and  roar  of 
the  guns  during  such  a  bombardment  is  a  ter- 
rific strain  on  the  nervous  system. 

At  one  o'clock  that  night  we  opened  up  an 
intense  bombardment  of  every  gun  in  the  Ypres 
salient,  from  the  18-pounders  to  Old  Grand- 
mother, away  back  on  the  far  hill;  every  gun 
joined  in.  At  the  last  five  minutes  of  a  time 
like  this  the  officer's  nerves  are  strained  as  taut 
as  a  violin-string.  With  trembling  hand  he  ex- 
amines his  watch,  apprehensive  of  every  last 
second.  To  fire  over-time  would  be  to  kill  our 
own  infantry.  At  one-thirty  sharp  the  cry  of 
"Stop!"  rings  out,  and  a  silence  almost  as  dis- 
tressing as  the  previous  roar  ensues,  and  we 
know  that  in  that  grim  silence  our  infantry  far 
up  under  the  star-shells  are  going  over  the  top. 
Sentries  are  mounted  at  the  battery  every  night 
to  keep  a  continual  watch  of  the  front  line  for 
the  SOS  signal,  which  is  the  cry  for  help  from 
the  trenches.    From  time  to  time  during  the 

51 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

night  the  sentries  are  relieved,  but  those  on  duty 
always  have  their  eyes  fixed  on  that  zone  which 
comes  under  the  protection  of  our  guns.  Out 
of  the  darkness  suddenly  a  long  trail  of  blue- 
and-crimson  light  may  shoot  up  into  the  night, 
bursting  above  into  a  crimson  spray.  At  this 
signal  the  sentry  shouts,  "SO  S!"  and  rushes 
down  the  battery,  awakening  the  gunners,  who 
come  tumbling  out  of  their  dugouts,  and  rush 
for  the  gun-pits. 

Sergeant  Hellfire  MacDougal  of  our  battery, 
who  commanded  No.  1  gun  crew,  was  always  in 
his  element  on  times  like  this.  He  would  come 
leaping  out  of  a  sound  sleep  and  lash  his  gun 
crew  into  action  with  astounding  rapidity.  From 
down  in  the  darkened  gun-pit  would  come  a 
stream  of  fervid  language  as  Hellfire  put  the 
lightning  in  the  heels  of  his  crew. 

The  guns  are  laid  on  permanent  SOS  tar- 
gets, and  it  is  only  a  matter  of  a  few  minutes 
until  they  can  be  fired  in  answer  to  the  SOS. 
But  every  second  counts.  Perhaps  a  mine  has 
been  sprung  or  a  front  line  has  been  penetrated 
by  a  surprise  attack,  and  the  complete  success 
of  the  enemy  can  only  be  prevented  by  the  in- 
stantaneous action  of  the  guns. 

Down  in  the  gun-pits  the  gunners  work  like 
furies  at  their  task.  Nothing  could  excel  the  rapid- 

52 


WITH    THE   ROARING    GUNS 

ity  and  precision  with  which  each  man  goes 
through  his  movement.  With  the  infallibility  of 
a  perfect  machine  the  fuse  is  set,  shell  is  rammed 
home,  the  charge  prepared  and  placed  in  the 
breech,  the  breech-block  jammed,  and  the  layer 
sings  out,  "Ready!" 

"Fire!"  orders  the  No.  1,  and  the  gun-pit 
shakes  to  the  reverberations,  and  a  long  tongue 
of  forked  lightning  shoots  out  of  the  gun-pit. 
As  the  gun  runs  up  from  the  recoil  the  No.  2  opens 
the  breech-block,  and  a  great  rush  of  lurid  back- 
fire leaps  from  the  breech,  disclosing  for  a  mo- 
ment an  uncanny  picture  of  seven  men  who  make 
up  the  gun  crew,  stripped  to  the  waist  and  work- 
ing for  dear  life. 

Sergeant  Hellfire  MacDougal  used  to  make  it 
his  boast  that  he  could  always  get  his  gun  fired 
before  any  other  in  the  salient.  He  generally 
made  good  his  boast,  but  the  rivalry  was  keen. 

Five  minutes  after  the  SOS  signal  sent  its 
cry  through  the  night  a  thousand  guns  might  be 
answering  to  its  call.  The  effect  of  such  a  sud- 
den outburst  is  most  inspiriting  to  the  fighting- 
men.  I  once  heard  an  infantryman  who  was  pass- 
ing by  our  battery  when  the  lid  was  thus  suddenly 
blown  off  of  hell  yell  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight: 

"That's  the  idea,  bo!  Soak  it  to  'em — hit  'em 
one  for  me." 

53 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

Hellfire  MacDougal  was  addicted  to  the  habit 
of  chewing  tobacco.  Black  Napoleon  was  his 
favorite  brand.  He  would  bite  off  a  great  chunk 
of  Honey  Dew,  spit  with  a  report  like  a  Maxim, 
and  then  send  a  leaping,  blood-curdling  oath  at  his 
gun  crew.  I  believe  that  Hellfire  was  descended 
from  the  Buccaneers.  His  forebears  must  have 
dwelt  on  the  Spanish  Main.  He,  at  least,  was 
much  indebted  to  the  Kaiser  for  starting  the 
war,  for,  as  he  put  it,  he  had  the-hell-of-a-good- 
time  out  of  it,  and  of  course  he  could  never  be 
killed.  As  he  expressed  it,  "They  'ain't  made 
the  bullet  yet  that  '11  get  me.*' 

On  one  occasion  an  armor-piercing  shell  burst 
through  his  gun-pit  and  detonated  on  the  gun. 
The  crew  were  in  action  at  the  time  and  every 
man  was  blown  to  pieces.  Hellfire  at  the  mo- 
ment was  having  a  little  target-practice  of  his 
own,  with  a  squirt  of  tobacco-juice  just  outside 
the  gun-pit,  and  he  went  untouched. 

"That's  what  comes  from  usin'  Black  Napo- 
leon, boys!"  he  announced,  nonchalantly,  when 
one  referred  to  his  miraculous  escape. 

The  Observation  Post 

Indirect  fire  is  the  general  method  in  this  war 
— that  is,  firing  at  an  unseen  target  by  means  of 
a  fixed  aiming-point,  the  fire  itself  being  directed 

54 


WITH    THE    ROARING    GUNS 

by  a  forward  observing  officer,  known  as  the 
F.  O.  O.,  who,  from  some  vantage-point  in  ad- 
vance, observes  the  burst  of  our  shells  and  wires 
the  correction  to  the  guns  in  the  rear. 

The  observation  post  may  be  situated  in  any 
convenient  position  that  commands  the  enemy's 
zone;  the  steeple  of  a  church,  the  top  of  a  house 
or  a  barn,  a  lofty  tree,  a  high  cliff,  a  shell  crater, 
may  serve  as  the  O.  P.,  as  it  is  called.  The  O.  P. 
is  always  a  dangerous  place,  as  the  enemy's  guns 
are  continually  searching  the  opposite  side  for 
points  likely  to  serve  for  observation. 

Early  in  the  war  when  artillery  officers  got 
together  one  heard  of  wild  experiences  in  pre- 
carious O.  P.'s,  most  of  which  have  long  since 
been  shot  to  kindling-wood.  On  one  occasion  an 
artillery  officer  had  just  ensconsed  himself  in  a 
lofty  steeple,  which  had  been  all  but  shot  away* 
when  the  enemy  opened  fire  on  the  steeple  again. 
Before  the  observer  could  make  good  his  retreat 
the  enemy  registered  a  direct  hit  on  the  tottering 
structure  and  the  whole  thing  crashed  to  earth, 
smashing  the  unfortunate  gunner  to  death,  and 
burying  him  in  heaps  of  debris. 

Among  the  commonest  places  for  an  O.  P.  is 
the  upper  story  of  an  old  house  or  barn.  These 
lonely  buildings,  often  all  that  remains  on  a 
razed   and   shattered   landscape,   are  the  most 

55 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

deplorable  places  imaginable  in  which  to  spend 
the  night.  In  the  long,  silent  hours  of  darkness 
it  seems  as  though  the  ghosts  of  other  days  were 
ever  running  riot  through  the  place. 

We  had  an  0.  P.  once  in  a  place  known  as 
"The  Haunted  Chateau."  It  was  situated  on  a 
high  hill,  surrounded  by  a  grove  of  trees  which 
were  stripped  bare  from  shell-fire.  Through  the 
bare  wood  the  wind  would  moan  at  night  like  a 
lost  soul,  while  the  rafters  of  the  place  would 
creak,  and  from  the  vaulted  cellars  imagination 
seemed  to  catch  all  kinds  of  voices. 

I  have  heard  Signaler  Muldooney  during  his 
lonely  watch  cry  out  as  though  in  pain  from  the 
horror  of  that  place  at  night.  Signaler  Mul- 
dooney would  go  through  a  curtain  of  fire  without 
batting  an  eye.  But  The  Haunted  Chateau  was 
too  much  for  his  nerves. 

The  attic  of  The  Haunted  Chateau  afforded  a 
splendid  observation  post.  Below,  everything 
had  been  smashed  to  pieces.  Careful  hands  had 
gently  nursed  that  rickety  attic,  and  new  beams 
and  piles  of  sand-bags  had  kept  it  from  crashing 
down,  though,  as  Muldooney  put  it,  "Ye  could 
hear  her  sway  when  the  wind  blew." 

From  the  topgallant  window  of  this  precarious 

structure  a  perfect  view  of  the  enemy  lines  could 

be  obtained.     Only  the  concealment  of  the  wood 

56 


WITH    THE    ROARING    GUNS 

had  saved  the  chateau  from  being  pulverized 
long  ago.  Fritz,  however,  suspicious  of  the 
wood,  had  a  bad  habit  of  suddenly  popping 
off  a  few  rounds  in  that  direction.  At  such 
times  the  rickety  attic  was  a  most  unpopular 
place. 

To  fire  the  battery  from  the  O.  P.  the  F.  O.  O. 
would  first  get  his  telescope  on  the  target  and 
then  call  out,  "Ready!"  which  the  telephoners 
would  repeat  over  the  'phone.  From  far  down 
at  the  guns  would  come  back  the  warning, 
"No.  1  gun  firing,"  and  a  moment  later  the 
F.  O.  O.  would  observe  the  shell  burst,  perhaps 
a  little  short  and  too  much  to  the  left,  so  he 
would  call  out,  "Ten  minutes  more  left — add 
fifty!"  meaning  that  the  gun  would  be  deflected 
ten  minutes  more  from  the  aiming-point  and 
elevated  for  fifty  yards  more.  If  this  was  not  on 
he  would  make  another  correction,  and  continue 
in  this  manner  until  the  shell  hit  the  target. 
This  is  called  registering  a  battery. 

Sometimes  the  O.  P.  is  situated  in  the  front 
line,  as  often  in  the  flat,  country  of  Flanders 
there  is  no  vantage-point  in  the  rear. 

The  observing  officer  goes  forward  for  a  two 
days'  stunt  in  the  front  line,  taking  with  him  a 
party  of  signalers  and  linemen.     On  arriving  in 

the  trenches  the  F.  O.  O.  reports  to  the  battalion 

57 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

commander  at  the  headquarters'  dugout,  situated 
in  the  support  trenches. 

While  on  the  front  line  it  is  the  duty  of  the 
F.  O.  O.  to  keep  the  guns  in  touch  with  the 
infantry.  The  battalion  commander  may  call 
upon  him  at  any  time  for  retaliation,  or  to  shoot 
up  any  new  target  that  may  present  itself. 

After  leaving  the  battalion  headquarters  the 
F.  O.  O.  relieves  the  officer  who  has  been  on  duty 
the  past  two  days,  who  hands  over  to  him  a  log- 
book containing  intelligence  of  all  happenings  in 
the  front  line  for  the  past  forty-eight  hours. 

The  gunner  officer  in  the  front  line  is  not 
merely  there  to  observe  for  his  guns;  he  is  also 
to  gather  all  possible  intelligence  pertaining  to 
his  own  zone.  A  record  is  kept  of  all  hostile  fire 
observed,  by  which  it  is  determined  whether  the 
enemy's  artillery  is  weak  or  strong  at  the  time  in 
that  particular  zone. 

In  his  intelligence  duties  the  F.  O.  O.  is  the 
newspaper  reporter  of  the  front  line.  With  peri- 
scope and  compass,  followed  by  a  trusty  signaler, 
he  moves  along  the  bays  of  the  fire  trench  in  his 
quest  for  news.  Three  balloons  are  observed, 
and  he  takes  the  bearings  of  them  with  his 
magnetic  compass.  Next  he  makes  note  of  an 
aeroplane  crossing  the  line,  flying  low. 

Seeing  a  group  eagerly  peering  at  a  looking- 

58 


WITH    THE    ROARING    GUNS 

glass  attached  to  the  end  of  a  bayonet,  which 
serves  as  a  periscope,  he  inquires,  "Anything 
doin'  here,  boys?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  answers  a  sergeant.  "It  looks  like 
a  new  emplacement,  five  degrees  left  of  the  bare 
tree." 

The  artillery  officer  turns  his  own  periscope, 
which  magnifies  ten  diameters,  on  the  object 
named,  and  whistles  to  himself. 

"Yes,  you're  onto  something,  all  right,  Ser- 
geant," he  exclaims.  "That's  what  we  call  The 
Major's  Dugout,  which  we  shot  up  some  time 
ago,  and  now  they've  built  it  up  again,  only  a 
little  lower.  But  we'll  shoot  it  up  again  to-night 
with  our  howitzers.  I  think  it's  a  machine-gun 
emplacement." 

A  little  farther  along  he  observes  a  great  rent 
in  the  Boche  parapet.  This  is  the  work  of  our 
trench  mortars,  who  have  been  having  a  little 
strafe  of  their  own.  A  sentry  in  another  bay 
shows  him  a  fuse  which  he  has  found.  The 
gunner  recognizes  the  fuse  as  coming  from  a  cer- 
tain high-velocity  shell,  and  makes  a  note  of  a 
new  gun  on  his  front. 

At  night  all  the  various  items  gathered  to- 
gether by  the  F.  O.  O.  are  written  down  and 
telephoned  back  to  the  artillery  group  head- 
quarters.    On  the  following  day  they  appear  in 

59 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

the  war  zone  newspaper,  known  as  The  Corps 
Intelligence  Summary.  Under  the  heading  "In- 
formation from  Our  Own  Front,  I — Enemy's 
Front  and  Support  Lines"  the  trench  reporter 
reads  his  news  gathered  the  day  before. 

Tlie  Intelligence  Summary  is  regarded  by  some 
as  a  weighty  production,  but  Tommy,  in  fine 
contempt,  calls  it  "Comic  Cuts."  But  despite 
the  irreverence  of  Tonmiv,  this  sheet  contains 
the  ultimate  war  news,  and  the  unknown  cub 
reporters  on  that  front-line  street  of  adventure  are 
daily  recording  history  that  some  day  ponderous 
professors  shall  sift  out  with  weighty  comment. 

In  time  of  battle  the  F.  O.  O.,  if  he  is  not  ob- 
serving in  the  front  line,  is  generally  at  battalion 
headquarters,  giving  every  latest  happening  to 
the  anxious  ears  at  the  guns.  Into  the  battalion 
headquarters,  as  into  a  whispering  gallery,  come 
the  rumors  from  all  parts  of  the  trenches: 
"Our  guns  are  shooting  short"  .  .  .  "Enemy 
are  coming  over"  .  .  .  "Enemy  have  pene- 
trated into  our  front  in  thirty-seven"  .  .  . 
"Trench  mortars  are  crumping  in  parapet  of 
thirty-five."  All  these  items  are  passed  back 
immediately  to  the  guns  and  determine  their 
policy  in  the  battle. 

Keeping  up  communications  during  a  bom- 
bardment is  a  most  difficult  and  dangerous  task. 

60 


WITH    THE   ROARING    GUNS 

Sometimes  the  lines  are  broken  simultaneously 
in  several  places  by  shell-fire.  Instantly  that 
communication  is  broken,  linemen  are  despatched 
to  mend  the  wires.  They  move  out  simultane- 
ously from  both  ends,  following  along  the  line 
until  they  discover  the  break  and  mend  it. 

To  move  out  across  a  field  where  death  is  fall- 
ing like  leaves  in  an  autumn  forest  requires  the 
finest  kind  of  pluck.  But  the  signalers  never 
seem  to  fail. 

"Hearn,  the  wires  are  down!"  exclaims  the 
officer  who  has  been  for  a  minute  fruitlessly 
fingering  the  telegraph-key. 

"Very  good,  sir,"  answers  the  faithful  Hearn, 
and  leaves  the  protection  of  the  deep  dugout  and 
begins  to  run  along  the  trench  with  shells  crump- 
ing in  every  direction.  Some  time  passes. 
Hearn  does  not  return,  and  the  communication 
is  not  re-established. 

"Mitchell,  I  guess  Hearn  has  gone  down. 
You  carry  on  his  place,"  is  the  next  order. 

"Very  good,  sir,"  answers  Mitchell,  and  with- 
out a  question  goes  out  into  the  storm  of  bursting 
shrapnel. 

Sometimes  one  lineman  after  another  is  de- 
spatched, and  all  fail  to  return.  But  at  all  costs 
communication  must  be  re-established.  There 
are  no  braver  men  in  the  war  than  the  artillery 

61 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

signalers,  and  none  who  make  a  greater  sacrifice 
in  the  path  of  duty.  During  three  months  in 
the  Somme  last  fall  our  battery  had  its  signalers 
completely  wiped  out  three  times  in  succession. 
It  got  so  that  I  never  expected  to  meet  one  of 
the  old-timers  after  the  second  or  third  trip. 

"Where  is  Mac?"  one  would  inquire,  missing 
an  old  face. 

"Oh,  he  went  west  last  week,"  would  be  the 
answer. 

When  we  are  attacking,  the  forward  observing 
officer  goes  over  the  top  just  like  the  rest.  He 
generally  goes  with  the  second  wave,  which  also 
includes  the  colonel  and  headquarters  staff  of  the 
battalion.  Once  out  in  No  Man's  Land,  the 
F.  O.  O.  and  his  signalers  make  for  a  prearranged 
point  in  the  enemy's  line  which  is  to  serve  as  the 
new  advanced  O.  P. 

As  the  artillery  party  crosses  No  Man's  Land 
a  field  telephone  is  carried  with  them,  and  a  wire 
is  run  out  connecting  them  with  the  guns.  If 
the  first  F.  O.  O.  goes  down,  word  comes  back  to 
the  reserve  officers  waiting  in  front-line  dugouts, 
and  a  second  steps  forth  to  fill  the  place  of  him 
who  has  fallen.  Sometimes  before  the  attack  is 
over  the  third  or  fourth  may  be  called  out  to  fill 
the  gap. 

It  is  the  duty  of  the  F.  O.  O.  during  an  attack 

62 


WITH    THE   ROARING    GUNS 

to  keep  the  guns  informed  as  to  the  position  of  our 
advancing  infantry,  as  to  what  objectives  have 
been  gained,  how  we  are  holding,  where  we  are 
losing,  and  if  any  guns  are  firing  short. 

One  sees  bloody  sights  on  first  entering  the 
front-line  trenches,  where  the  mopping-up  bat- 
talions are  busy  with  bombs  and  bayonets.  The 
tide  of  battle  here  is  always  changing,  and  what  is 
ours  now,  within  an  hour  may  be  in  the  enemy's 
hands  again.  Everything  is  uncertain,  and  our 
line  is  always  shifting. 

One  F.  O.  O.  who  advanced  with  the  farthest 
wave  established  himself  in  a  Boche  dugout,  and 
was  busily  engaged  in  studying  his  map  when  he 
heard  bombs  explode  in  the  next  dugout,  occu- 
pied by  his  signalers.  Rushing  to  the  entrance  of 
his  dugout,  the  officer  was  startled  to  see  the 
backs  of  three  Germans,  who  were  engaged  in 
bombing  his  signalers  next  door.  With  a  quick 
draw  of  his  Colt  .45  he  despatched  the  three  Huns, 
through  the  back,  and,  leaping  out,  found  the 
trench  entirely  abandoned  by  our  troops,  they 
having  retired  without  giving  the  artillery  officer 
warning.  All  his  signalers  were  killed.  Need- 
less to  relate,  Arthur  Duffy  had  nothing  on  that 
F.  O.  O.  for  speed,  when  he  once  started  to  retire. 

The  artillery  still  thrills  with  high  adventure. 
In  the  precarious  and  shell-swept  observation 

63 


THE    HEAL   FRONT 

post,  by  the  roaring,  reeking  mouths  of  the  guns; 
or  with  the  ammunition  limbers  thundering 
around  Suicide  Corner  or  tearing  down  Death 
Valley — in  all  its  phases  it  still  presents  the 
colors  of  romance  against  the  otherwise  somber 
background  of  modern  war. 


IV 

ANGELS   OF   DEATH 

,1K7'00DC0TE  FARM  was  an  island  invul- 
™  "  nerable,  situated  on  a  wide  sea  of  desola- 
tion. Bedford  House  near  by  was  shattered. 
What  was  once  known  as  Bedford  Wood  was 
now  aptly  described  by  the  Tommy  as  "Bedford 
Kindling  Wood." 

Places  where  there  had  been  houses  on  the  road 
to  Ypres  were  marked  by  ruined  cellars.  On  the 
right  hand  and  on  the  left  the  storm  of  battle  had 
swept  the  landscape  far  and  wide.  But  there, 
in  the  midst  of  all  that  sea  of  desolation,  stood 
Woodcote  Farm,  a  rock  in  the  storm,  and  a 
covert  from  the  tempest. 

Coming  in  from  the  Belgian  chateau,  across 
those  wicked  fields  so  pocked  with  shell-holes, 
one  heard  the  warning  whir  of  shells  and  rushed 
for  that  city  of  refuge.  Battalions  moving  up  to 
support,  from  the  billets  of  Woodcote  Farm,  re- 
luctantly left  its  protecting  rafters  and,  return- 
ing alive,  they  hailed  it  as  good  augury. 

5  65 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

On  a  high  and  windy  plain  in  Hellas  where  the 
boisterous  elements  were  forever  sweeping,  the 
ancient  Greeks  raised  a  Temple  of  the  Winds. 
There,  by  that  shell-swept  Flemish  road,  I  found 
my  Temple  of  the  Angels  of  Death.  Through 
the  creaking  rafters  at  night  one  felt  the  rush  of 
wind  from  passing  shells.  The  hours  of  darkness 
were  forever  broken  by  the  wail  of  Hun  projec- 
tiles. By  day  the  windows  rattled,  where  the 
panes  were  long  since  broken,  and  the  frame  of 
the  building  was  shaken  by  imminent  concussion, 
while  with  bated  breath  one  waited  for  the  next 
and  for  ruin. 

Strange  to  relate,  that  ruin  never  came.  Itin- 
erant infantry  were  billeted  there  but  for 
the  night,  and  their  sleep  was  broken.  They 
could  not  persuade  themselves  that  the  place 
would  not  soon  be  about  their  heads.  "I'd 
sooner  take  my  chances  on  the  fire-step  what- 
effer,"  said  a  canny  Scot,  as  the  quaking  roof 
answered  the  crump  of  a  5.9  high  explosive. 

For  the  artillery  who  lived  there  for  months 
this  precarious  place  had  lost  its  dread.  With 
them,  as  with  dwellers  beneath  an  avalanche, 
familiarity  bred  contempt. 

Our  battery  was  in  action  there  for  a  long 
period,  and  thus  began  my  acquaintance  with  the 
Temple  of  the  Angels  of  Death. 

66 


ANGELS   OF    DEATH 

It  was  in  the  season  of  the  vernal  equinox, 
long  after  nightfall,  when  I  first  went  through  to 
Woodcote  Farm.  A  wild  and  untoward  storm 
was  sweeping  the  flat  lands  of  Flanders,  with 
tornadoes  of  lashing  rain.  To  add  to  the  horror 
of  darkness,  the  Angels  of  Death  were  abroad 
that  night.  Over  the  fatal  fields  they  flew  in 
legions  in  the  midst  of  the  storm  and  the  tempest. 

Two  hours  before,  in  the  safe  shelter  of  the 
Estaminet  de  Trois  Amis  the  sergeant-major  and 
I  had  stood  like  men.  But  now  we  ran  and 
stumbled  through  the  darkness  with  the  sicken- 
ing dread  of  hunted  beasts.  All  was  well  when 
we  left  the  Park  of  Belgian  Chateau.  The  inky 
gloom  and  the  rain  and  the  equinoxial  gales  were 
naught  to  us.  Directing  our  steps  by  a  luminous 
compass,  the  only  way  on  such  a  night,  we  bent 
manfully  against  the  storm .  Shell-holes  abounded ; 
here  and  there  we  floundered  in  lakes  of  water. 
Getting  wet  to  the  waist  we  did  not  mind.  But 
the  taciturnity  of  the  sergeant-major  gave  way 
to  violent  expletive  when  he  immersed  himself  in 
a  Johnson-hole  full  flooded. 

At  a  moment  when  our  discomfiture  was 
completest  we  heard  the  note  of  the  Angels  of 
Death.  Our  feelings  were  like  those  of  frontiers- 
men who  suddenly  hear  in  the  depths  of  the  wild 
the  voice  of  pursuing  wolves.     The  scream  of  the 

67 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

shells  increased  across  that  fatal  meadow  until 
they  were  raining  down  like  the  elements  of  the 
night.  With  a  "crump"  I  heard  them  detonate 
against  the  ground,  and  with  bated  breath 
waited  until  with  splash  and  patter  the  broken 
bits  of  steel  and  debris  came  falling  back  to 
earth. 

Twice  flying  pieces  hit  my  shrapnel-helmet. 
It  was  just  a  touch,  but  nerves  keyed  to  the 
highest  pitch  answered  with  instant  trembling. 
How  many  times  I  had  heard  the  voice  of  the 
shells  in  cold  indifference!  With  the  responsi- 
bility of  attending  to  my  men  at  the  guns,  or  the 
keenness  for  my  task  at  the  observation  post,  I 
could  almost  spit  at  the  Boche  projectiles  as 
they  passed.  But  it  was  different  in  that  lonely 
field. 

A  busy  mind  in  the  midst  of  danger  is  at  ease. 
But,  oh,  the  agony  of  a  mind  at  rest!  I  had 
naught  but  myself  to  think  of,  and  I  thought  of 
every  peril.  As  I  lay  on  my  stomach  in  a  shell- 
hole  I  was  a  child  again,  and  seeing  things  at 
night.  What  was  that  that  whispered  in  my 
ear?  My  hand  was  tremulous  as  an  aspen. 
There  came  upon  me  that  loathsome  sickening 
of  fear,  the  vilest  sickening  man  may  know.  I 
had  heard  the  rustling  wings  of  the  Angels  of 
Death,  and  with  their  breath  they  had  breathed 

68 


ANGELS    OF    DEATH 

upon  lne.  In  that  one  blanching  moment  I  had 
known  the  call  of  Fate  and  of  Eternity. 

There,  wallowing  in  that  shell-hole,  for  me, 
Life  and  Death  had  met  together,  Time  and 
Eternity  had  kissed  each  other.  Finite  beings 
cannot  have  such  sudden  trystings  with  the  In- 
finite without  almost  unbearable  recoil.  Imagi- 
nation, swift  and  winged,  in  that  brief  twinkling, 
took  me  far  into  the  provinces  of  Death,  and 
afterward  my  brow  was  wet  with  sweat  that 
gathers  on  the  brow  of  those  who  are  afraid  to 
go. 

What  passed  out  there  in  the  midst  of  the 
blackness  of  the  storm  on  that  awful  field  was 
a  nightmare  of  nightmares  for  me.  When  at  last 
I  arrived  at  the  haven  of  Woodcote  Farm  I  was 
exhausted,  not  from  battling  the  elements,  but 
from  battlings  with  the  Spirit  of  Fear. 

By  dim  lantern-light  at  the  door  of  my  billet 
I  gazed  upon  the  face  of  Horror  as  I  bade  good 
night  to  him  who  was  my  companion  across  those 
stretches  of  inferno.  If  the  sergeant-major  sees 
these  lines  I  doubt  not  that  he  will  say  with  me 
that  our  approach  to  the  Temple  of  the  Angels 
of  Death  that  night  was  made  through  the 
Valley  of  Fear.  Whatever  his  opinion  was  re- 
quired no  telling;  it  was  written  on  his  face. 
But  in  parting,  my  tacit  urn  friend  broke  his 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

wonted  silence  and  tersely  observed,  "In  this 
here  fightin'  game  it  ain't  the  things  ye  see,  it's 
what  ye  can't  see,  gets  your  wind-up!" 

My  first  night's  sleep  in  Woodcote  Farm  was 
feverish  and  fitful.  Like  bloodhounds  from  hell, 
the  Angels  of  Death  pursued  me  in  my  dreams. 
With  the  swiftness  of  spirit  I  seemed  to  fly  from 
danger,  while  they,  yet  ever  swifter,  seemed  to 
follow.  Often  I  woke  with  a  start  and,  listening 
tensely,  I  always  heard  the  whir  of  passing 
shells.  The  sight  of  the  Angels  of  Death  by  day 
is  fearsome  enough,  but  the  sound  of  their  voices 
at  the  dead  of  night  opens  out  for  the  imagina- 
tion boundless  horizons  of  dread. 

Our  guns  were  in  action  before  the  dawn.  I 
walked  behind  our  gun-pits  with  an  emotion 
which  I  had  never  felt  before.  At  the  entrance 
to  No.  1  gun  some  one  had  painted  with  grim 
irony,  "Whizz  Bang  &  Co.,  Wholesale  and  Re- 
tail Dealers  in  Death." 

As  I  flashed  my  electric  torch  upon  that  sign 
I  realized  how  apt  it  was  for  such  a  business. 
Last  night  the  German  sub-lieutenant  who  di- 
rected the  quick  fire  about  my  head  was  serenely 
oblivious  to  all  the  terrors  that  I  was  suffering. 
With  him  it  was  merely  a  mechanical  task. 
He  had  his  allotted  time  for  bombardment,  and  he 
paced  up  and  down,  impatiently  watching  his 

70 


ANGELS    OF   DEATH 

wrist-watch,  and  when  the  time  was  up  cried  to 
the  battery,  "Stop!"  and  returned  to  his  warm 
dugout  as  indifferently  as  the  smithy  returns 
from  his  forge. 

I  myself  had  directed  the  fire  of  thousands  of 
rounds  in  like  manner.  "It's  all  in  the  day's 
work,"  I  used  to  say  to  myself;  "a  mechanical 
task  to  be  done  and  nothing  more."  Standing 
behind  the  crashing  breech-blocks,  the  ground 
shaking  from  the  recoil,  I  gave  little  thought  to 
what  was  happening  at  the  other  end  of  the 
business. 

Often  I  said  to  a  parting  shell,  "I  hope  you 
kill  a  dozen  Boche."  But  it  was  all  a  cold, 
impersonal  thing. 

That  morning  I  had  a  new  experience.  We 
were  indeed  wholesale  and  retail  dealers  in  death, 
and,  worse  still,  in  those  terrors  that  go  before. 

I  found  myself  regarding  the  bloody  business 
in  a  new  light.  I  saw  the  reeking  gun-pits,  and, 
standing  at  the  entrance  of  the  nearest  one,  I 
peered  in.  The  place  was  full  of  smoke,  the 
stench  of  burning  cordite,  and  the  pantings  of 
the  struggling  gun  crew.  There  was  the  crash 
of  a  breech-block,  and  a  cry  of  "Ready!"  with 
an  answering  cry  of  "Fire!"  The  ground  shook 
from  the  concussion.  The  gun  recoiled  and,  as  it 
ran  back  from  the  recoil,  the  breech-block  was 

71 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

swung  open,  and  a  lurid  trail  of  backfire  leaped 
into  the  gun-pit,  disclosing  seven  men  stripped 
to  the  waist  and  toiling  like  the  furies.  This  was 
one  side  of  the  shield,  the  vision  behind  the 
breech-block;  but  what  of  the  side  beyond? 

I  never  pictured  that  side  before;  but  now,  in 
imagination,  I  looked  across  the  muzzles  of  our 
guns  five  thousand  yards  away.  There  again  I 
saw  the  Angels  of  Death,  and  I  felt  their  breath, 
just  as  they  had  breathed  upon  me  last  night  in 
those  awful  fields. 

Throughout  all  the  long  period  of  our  stay  at 
Woodcote  Farm  that  place  became  ever  more 
poignantly  for  me  the  Temple  of  the  Angels  of 
Death. 

One  day  I  was  coming  along  the  road  from 
Ypres  in  the  midst  of  a  grand  bombardment  from 
the  Boche.  A  salvo  of  shrapnel  burst  immedi- 
ately above  the  road.  I  dived  for  the  ditch  and 
fell  flat,  hugging  the  earth  with  bated  breath, 
while  bullets  rattled  on  the  cobbles  of  the  road- 
way. 

After  the  showers  of  shrapnel  had  ceased  I 
hopped  back  into  the  road,  on  which  two  figures 
were  recumbent:  one  was  an  officer  from  a 
western  Canadian  regiment;  the  other  was  a 
trooper  from  the  Ghirwalis,  tribesmen  from  the 
hills  of  India. 

72 


ANGELS    OF   DEATH 

I  bent  over  the  prostrate  officer  and  found  that 
he  was  dead.  Approaching  the  Ghirwali  trooper, 
I  saw  that  he  was  on  his  knees,  with  head  bowed 
against  the  earth,  in  that  prostrate  attitude  as- 
sumed by  Easterners  in  extreme  devotion.  He 
was  not  dead.  He  had  seen  the  Angels  of 
Death,  and  had  fallen  down  before  them. 

That  Ghirwali  trooper  came  from  the  East,  the 
home  of  mystery;  for  him  those  winged  projectiles 
of  the  air  were  something  more  than  iron  and 
steel.  They  spoke  of  something  preternatural. 
They  breathed  on  man  in  passing,  and  he  who 
was  a  living  being  became  as  the  clod  and  the 
earth.  They  touched  that  young  officer  who 
a  moment  before  was  pulsing,  breathing,  vital, 
and  now  he  lay  there,  stark  and  still.  Small 
wonder  the  tribesman  from  the  East  fell  down 
before  such  fearsome  power. 

The  Angels  of  Death  to  which  he  bowed  were 
made  in  the  foundries  of  Essen,  fashioned  by  the 
finite  hand  of  man,  but  fraught  with  an  infinite 
mission.  Where  the  light  of  a  thousand  fur- 
nace fires  made  red  the  canopy  of  night  these 
shells  were  fashioned,  just  as  were  fashioned  spade 
and  scythe. 

In  the  arsenals  they  lay  inanimate  and  harm- 
less as  any  implement  of  peace.  The  stolid  Ger- 
man watchman  dozed  beside  them,  just  as  he 

73 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

dozed  in  church  on  Sunday  morning.  Sight- 
seers at  the  arsenal  moved  through  the  long, 
dark  aisles  where  those  dread  legions  lay.  But 
the  sightseers  saw  only  a  sleek  painted  case  of 
metal,  a  rounded  nose,  and  a  fuse  of  burnished 
brass. 

Once  as  the  door  was  opened  wide  to  let  in 
high-born  visitors  the  sunlight  flashed  across  the 
row  on  row  of  burnished  fuses,  as  on  a  field  of 
shining  spears.  The  German  Emperor  stood 
there  in  the  doorway  and  his  eyes  gave  back  an 
answering  flash.  Here,  on  this  foundry  floor,  he 
declared  was  the  glory  of  Mars,  for  he,  the 
Emperor,  had  seen  it,  with  his  saber  clanking 
on  the  selfsame  floor.  A  princeling  of  the  royal 
house  there  caught  a  glimpse  of  Prussian  eagles 
soaring,  and  over  all  an  azure  blue.  The  fair 
princess  laughed,  and  her  face  was  radiant  as  she 
exclaimed,  "What  a  thrilling  sight!"  Her  little 
son  clapped  his  hands  with  glee,  and  scampered 
off  toward  the  "booful  fings." 

Thousands  of  sightseers  came  and  went,  and 
high  and  low  caught  many  visions  as  they  gazed 
upon  those  rows  of  grim,  upstanding  shells.  Vi- 
sions of  wealth,  of  power,  of  glory,  of  renown, 
were  kindled  by  that  sight.  But  none  saw  there 
the  Angels  of  Death. 

When  the  day  of  action  came  long  trains 

74 


ANGELS   OF   DEATH 

rushed  over  every  railroad  with  the  shells. 
Swift  motor-lorries  bore  them  on  to  where  the 
ammunition  columns  took  them  over,  and  with 
endless  teams  of  horses  struggled  on  through 
mud  and  fire  and  battle  to  the  reeking  mouths 
of  the  guns. 

For  the  artillery  officer  who  received  them  in 
the  gun-pits  they  were  merely  material  things, 
to  accomplish  material  tasks,  to  demolish  fortifi- 
cations, to  smash  trenches,  to  hold  up  attacks, 
to  blow  up  entanglements,  to  keep  up  barrages, 
or  to  knock  out  opposing  guns. 

On  that  fateful  July  morning  the  German  gun- 
ner held  the  shell  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand,  and 
with  the  dexterity  of  a  juggler  tossed  it  over, 
caught  it  spinning,  and  slapped  it  in  the  breech. 
The  laughing  gun  crew  were  all  smiles  that  morn- 
ing at  the  sleight-of-hand  work  of  their  No.  3, 
while  the  sergeant's  back  was  turned.  The 
laugh  caused  by  his  horse-play  mingled  with  the 
report  of  that  fateful  shot. 

Serene,  indifferent  of  infinite  tragedies  beyond, 
the  servants  of  the  guns  plied  their  roaring  field- 
piece,  and  sang  to  themselves  in  the  joy  of  the 
morning  light. 

Over  the  road  from  Ypres  the  Angels  of  Death 
were  loosed.  That  inanimate  piece  of  steel,  a 
moment  before  a  juggler's  ball,  was  now  endued 

75 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

with  divine  prerogative,  to  loose  the  cord  of 
life. 

While  I  crouched  breathless  in  a  ditch  beside 
me  on  that  Flemish  road,  that  long-time  harmless 
piece  of  metal,  which  so  many  human  hands  had 
touched,  there  snatched  away  a  power  of  God 
and  closed  a  human  life  forever. 

As  I  gazed  upon  the  white  and  vacant  stare 
which  a  moment  before  was  radiance  and  youth, 
I  entered  into  the  tragic  secret  of  the  Angels  of 
Death.  The  fallen  officer  came  from  the  far 
west  of  Canada,  but  on  that  road  from  Ypres  his 
journeyings  had  ended.  Nevermore  would  he 
see  the  sunlight  on  his  prairies,  the  shadows  of 
the  foot-hills,  or  the  white  peaks  of  the  Rockies. 

The  Ghirwali  trooper  remained  long  prostrate, 
in  an  attitude  of  supplication.  I  did  not  wonder. 
I  understood  his  emotion.  With  the  mystic  eyes 
of  the  East  he,  too,  had  pierced  beyond  the  seen 
into  that  infinite  and  everlasting  empire  of  the 
Angels  of  Death. 


THE  REAL  FRONT 

T  T  was  at  that  hour  of  the  night  when  the  dark- 
*•  ness  was  deepest  and  the  sentries  were  keen- 
est. I  had  been  up  on  the  front  line  for  "Stand 
to."  Never  did  that  front  line  seem  to  be 
wrapped  in  peace  more  profound.  Naught  could 
be  seen  but  the  inky  blackness,  broken  momen- 
tarily by  the  flight  of  a  star-shell  which  silhouetted 
a  grim  line  of  figures  with  fixed  bayonets  waiting 
on  the  parapet.  Darkness  returned,  and  in  the 
utter  gloom  I  groped  my  way  and  shivered, 
not  from  the  chill  night  winds,  but  from  those 
apprehensive  high-tensed  nerves  that,  like  a  wire- 
less coherer,  seemed  to  catch  the  far-off  waves  of 
something  stirring  in  the  night. 

In  the  flash  of  the  star-shell  I  had  seen  the 
glint  of  the  bayonets  and  a  momentary  adum- 
bration of  that  living  wall  that  stands  between 
our  country  and  the  foe.  What  if  that  living 
wall  should  break?  In  the  vastness  of  the  night 
it  seemed  so  frail  and  so  all-encompassed. 

77 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

I  climbed  up  on  the  parapet  between  two 
sentries;  both  were  peering  intently  through  the 
gloom. 

"All  quiet  on  the  front  to-night?"  I  inquired. 

"All  quiet  for  the  moment,  sir,"  came  the 
answer. 

Like  one  on  the  shore  of  a  soundless  sea,  I 
gazed  into  the  void  of  No  Man's  Land.  Again 
those  preternatural  nerves,  taut  as  a  violin-string, 
seemed  to  catch  the  premonitions  of  a  coming 
storm. 

"Keep  a  sharp  lookout,"  I  whispered  to  the 
sentry.  "It  may  be  superstition  on  my  part,  but 
I  feel  certain  that  hell's  going  to  pop  to-night." 

"I  think  you're  right,  sir,"  said  the  sentry. 
"It  feels  a  bit  queer  to  me  just  now." 

For  some  time  I  lingered  in  the  fire-trench. 
But  the  unbroken  calm  remained.  Glancing  at 
my  wrist-watch,  I  saw  that  the  hour  of  the  dawn 
was  approaching,  and  I  wended  my  way  down 
the  communicating  trench  into  the  supports 
where  my  dugout  was  situated. 

I  was  forward  observing  officer  for  the  artillery, 
whose  duty  it  was  to  keep  the  guns  in  touch 
with  the  front  line.  My  signalers  and  linemen 
were  all  asleep  except  the  man  on  duty,  who  sat 
under  a  candle-light,  with  the  'phone  strapped 
to  his  ears,  his  fingers  on  the  telegraph-key. 

78 


THE    REAL   FRONT 


<« 


'Any  message  from  the  battery?"  I  inquired. 

"No,  sir.     No  word,"  came  the  reply. 

Outside,  the  soft  wind  was  crooning  a  slumber 
song.  I  stretched  myself  and  was  preparing  for 
the  luxury  of  sleep  when  there  came  a  wail  like 
a  lost  soul  through  the  night.  It  ended  with  a 
shriek  and  a  sickening  thud,  and  with  a  roar 
our  dugout  was  shaken  as  though  by  an  earth- 
quake. We  were  old-timers,  the  telephonist  and 
I.     "  That's  a  Minnie !"  I  exclaimed. 

"Yes,  sir;  and  rather  close,  too,"  ventured  the 
cold-blooded  signaler. 

I  jumped  out  into  the  trench  and  listened. 
The  air  was  thick  with  the  voice  of  Minnie. 
Now  if  there  was  anything  I  loathed,  it  was  a 
Minnie's  strafe.  Minnie  is  short  for  Minnie- 
whuffer,  which  is  a  hundred-pound  trench  mortar 
used  by  the  Boche.  In  a  lecture  at  a  school  be- 
hind the  lines  I  once  heard  an  officer  refer  to  the 
Minnie  as  a  "great  bluffer,"  but  she  has  a  great 
moral  effect,  he  continued. 

The  despicable  Minnie  has  more  terror-arous- 
ing qualities  than  any  other  form  of  ordnance 
with  which  I  am  acquainted.  The  disgusting 
part  of  it  is  that  it  is  so  primitive.  Silent  Lizzies, 
which  are  heard  after  they  have  passed,  are 
worthy  of  respect  because  of  their  speed,  but  to 
be  killed  by  a  Minnie  seemed  as  ignominious  as 

79 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

being  run  over  by  a  hearse.  Primitive  as  Minnie 
is,  we  must  give  her  her  due — she  can  give  one 
the  worst  attack  of  "wind-up,"  which  is  trench 
vernacular  for  fear,  of  anything  I  know.  One 
at  a  time  in  the  air  is  not  bad;  you  can  at  least 
make  a  bid  at  dodging.  But  when  the  air  is 
ahum  with  a  half  a  score  of  Minnies  at  once,  to 
dodge  one  means  to  run  amuck  into  another. 

When  a  Minnie  lands,  there  will  straightway 
be  a  hole  big  enough  for  a  farm-house  cellar. 
One  does  not  care  to  share  his  standing-room  with 
Minnie.  Those  who  go  into  partnership  with 
this  bomb  are  lucky  if  they  leave  behind  a  piece 
of  an  ear  and  a  shin-bone. 

While  I  contemplated  hell  popping  in  the  front 
line  the  telephonist  exclaimed,  "Adjutant  wants 
you  at  battalion  headquarters,  sir." 

A  minute's  run  down  the  trench  brought  me  to 
battalion  headquarters.  It  was  a  great,  deep 
dugout,  with  an  excessive  overhead  protection, 
toward  which  telephone-wires  converged  from 
all  parts  of  the  trench.  Inside,  the  colonel  sat 
at  a  telephone,  making  frantic  inquiries  of  com- 
pany commanders  as  to  demoralizing  conditions 
in  the  front  line. 

"Do  you  want  some  retaliation?"  I  inquired  of 
the  adjutant. 

"No,  we  will  not  give  them  any  heavy  stuff. 

80 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

I  think  that  our  trench  mortars  and  stokes  guns 
can  handle  'em,  but  I  want  you  to  go  up  front 
and  get  a  line  on  some  of  Fritz's  trench  mortars." 

"Thanks,"  said  I.  "There's  no  place  I'd 
sooner  not  be  than  in  the  front  line  when  Minnies 
are  coming  over.  But  if  we  can  only  get  the 
satisfaction  of  pounding  a  few  of  these  mean 
things  to  smithereens  with  an  honest  God-fearing 
field-gun  I'll  be  happy." 

Like  a  rat  I  began  to  dodge  my  way  up  the 
communicating  trench.  Once  a  bomb  landed 
just  outside  the  trench.  I  was  bowled  over  by 
the  concussion  and  covered  with  dirt,  but  on 
picking  myself  up  found  no  harm  done,  and  pro- 
ceeded. A  little  farther  I  encountered  several 
successive  craters  and  met  a  figure  retreating 
hastily. 

"Beat  it  out  of  here.  Quick!  Fritz's  got  a 
dead  line  on  this  communicating  trench!"  he 
exclaimed. 

I  leaped  to  follow  his  advice.  "Rat  Alley" 
being  out  of  use,  there  remained  another  way  up 
front  for  me  through  "Petticoat  Lane."  Grop- 
ing my  way  along  "Petticoat  Lane,"  I  arrived  in 
the  fire-trench,  which  at  that  time  was  the  real 
front. 

One  might  visit  the  fire-trench  many  times  and 
yet  never  see  the  real  front.     The  real  front  is 

6  81 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

the  battle  front,  which  comes  and  goes.  Like 
Vesuvius,  it  may  burst  into  eruption,  and  then 
for  long  remain  the  crater  of  a  dead  volcano. 
Now  and  again  one  meets  with  a  war  correspond- 
ent who  has  been  "at  the  front."  But  being  at 
the  front  on  a  quiet  day  is  quite  different  from 
being  at  the  front  in  midst  of  battle.  To  have 
been  in  Pompeii  as  it  lay  in  the  peace  and  calm 
of  its  ruins  is  one  thing.  To  have  been  in  the 
fateful  city  on  the  night  that  the  living  lava 
swept  its  streets  is  quite  another  experience. 
And  so  it  is  with  the  real  front. 

As  a  war  correspondent  I  visited  the  Chatalja 
lines  in  1913.  I  remember  with  what  a  thrill  I 
gazed  from  the  St.  George's  redoubt  toward  the 
Bulgarian  trenches,  preening  myself  that  I  was 
gazing  upon  a  true  battle  line.  But  I  might  as 
well  have  been  in  Chickapee  Falls  on  Sunday 
morning,  for  all  the  stir  of  battle  that  was  there 
that  day. 

I  returned  to  Constantinople  elated  with  the 
idea  that  I  had  been  at  the  front.  My  first  ex- 
perience in  the  trenches  in  France  was  equally 
uneventful,  and  with  immense  satisfaction  I  re- 
turned to  our  billets  behind  Bethune,  quite  cer- 
tain that  I  did  not  dislike  war. 

"Why,  there's  nothing  to  dread  in  the  war 
game,"  I  announced,  grandly,  on  our  first  night 

82 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

out.  "I've  been  at  the  front  in  the  Balkans, 
and  now  in  France,  and  I  surprise  myself  at  how 
little  of  a  coward  I  really  am." 

That  was  before  I  had  ever  seen  the  real  front. 
One  day  that  quiescent  volcano  on  which  I  had 
been  dwelling  suddenly  burst  into  eruption. 
Out  of  the  trembling  earth  and  the  belching  fire 
and  smoke  I  found  that  I  still  was  human.  My 
tongue  went  dry  and  my  knees  knocked  together, 
and  I  found  that  the  real  front  was  a  place  of 
mortal  terror.  My  young  friend,  Bobby  Kerr, 
sat  beside  me  on  the  fire-step,  struggling  to  keep 
up  a  nonchalant  appearance.  Despite  his  ef- 
forts, a  pallor  crept  across  his  face,  precursor  of 
that  chill  hand  of  death  that  even  then  was 
reaching  out  to  find  him. 

"It  was  only  a  little  strafe,"  I  heard  a  seasoned 
sergeant  say  later.  But  that  "little  strafe"  gave 
me  a  glimpse  of  the  real  front,  which  I  often  saw 
thereafter,  and  which  I  always  dreaded  and 
always  hated.  That  night  when  the  rations 
came  up  I  saw  the  limp,  fair-haired  body  of 
Bobby  Kerr  placed  on  the  trolley  that  brought 
up  the  rations.  A  friend  whom  I  loved  was  gone, 
and  the  iron  of  the  real  front  had  entered  into  my 
soul. 

As  I  rushed  out  of  "Petticoat  Lane"  into  the 
bay  of  the  fire-trench  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 

83 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

real  front.  Illuminated  by  the  incessant  flight  of 
star-shells,  I  saw  the  men,  like  hunted  beasts, 
moving  up  and  down  in  frantic  efforts  to  escape 
the  Minniewhuffer  bombs.  A  tall  subaltern  stood 
at  the  end  of  the  bay  directing  his  men.  They 
were  all  outside,  as  there  was  no  protection  in  the 
dugout  from  Minnie. 

"For  God's  sake,  string  out  there,  men,  and 
don't  bunch  together,"  yelled  the  officer.  But 
his  order  was  too  late.  Into  the  midst  of  a  panic- 
stricken  human  mass  lobbed  one  of  the  hundred- 
pound  bombs.  I  closed  my  eyes  on  the  horrible 
scene  that  ensued.  Out  of  all  that  mass  only 
three  remained  alive,  and,  groaning  and  man- 
gled, they  were  hurried  down  the  trench  by  the 
stretcher-bearers. 

Back  at  the  guns,  through  the  long  perspective, 
we  could  look  upon  the  front  line  with  its  leaping 
lightning  as  an  alluring  and  thrilling  sight.  But 
up  there  in  the  fire-trench  that  night  the  glory 
of  war  was  gone.  The  air  was  filled  with  the 
eternal  note  of  oncoming  bombs.  In  the  inky 
darkness  one  knew  not  which  way  to  turn.  If 
he  prepared  to  jump  to  avoid  one  Minnie,  in 
stark  terror  he  heard  another  coining.  Every- 
thing tended  to  produce  a  panic  in  the  soul. 
Blind  and  insensate  were  the  forces  against 
us;  brain  and  skill  were  of  no  avail. 

84 


TH>E   REAL   FRONT 

Standing  on  the  fire-sill  I  found  Captain  Rush, 
the  company  commander,  peering  eagerly  across 
the  parapet.  I  climbed  beside  him,  but  he 
seemed  too  preoccupied  at  first  to  notice  me. 
"Have  you  got  a  line  on  something?"  I  inquired. 

"Why,  you're  the  gunner  officer!"  he  ex- 
claimed. "You're  just  in  time.  I'll  point  you 
out  the  most  cursed  target  that  you'll  ever  have 
the  happiness  of  shooting  up.  I've  got  a  line 
on  a  trench-mortar  battery  over  there." 

As  he  spoke  I  caught  the  flash  from  the  direc- 
tion in  which  he  pointed.  I  was  engrossed  in 
taking  a  bearing  of  the  direction  of  the  flash  with 
a  magnetic  compass  when  the  bomb  came  lobbing 
just  above  our  heads.  Instinctively  I  ducked, 
and,  as  I  did  so,  in  the  glare  of  a  Verey  light  I 
saw  a  Highlander  stand  forth  behind  me.  Flashed 
upon  the  screen  of  my  mind  for  a  moment  the 
picture  of  that  Highlander  remains  for  all  time. 
In  the  explosion  of  the  bomb  he  was  blotted  out, 
and  where  he  stood  there  was  a  gaping  crater 
gouged  up  from  the  earth.  When  the  smoke 
and  fire  had  cleared  away  I  rushed  to  the  spot  to 
render  needed  succor,  but  the  last  trace  of  the 
Highlander  was  gone  forever.  Next  day, 
prompted  by  a  special  curiosity,  I  descended  into 
that  gaping  hole  in  the  earth  and  ransacked  the 

spot,  but  a  strip  of  plaid  from  a  kiltie,  and  a  red 

85 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

ribbon  worn  on  the  tartan  sock  were  all  that  I 
could  find.  Ptolemys  and  Rameses,  the  Egyp- 
tian Pharaohs,  lived  thousands  of  years  ago,  and 
their  physical  semblances  still  remain.  But  the 
Highlander  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  passed 
from  the  seen  to  the  unseen,  and  by  the  diabolic 
power  of  Minnie  his  every  vestige  was  scattered 
to  the  elements.  Small  wonder  that  we  have  a 
mortal  fear  of  Minniewhuffers. 

I  climbed  on  the  sill  of  the  fire-trench  again  by 
Captain  Rush,  feeling  nauseated  by  the  incident 
of  the  Highlander.  Beside  me  I  heard  Rush 
call  down  his  curse  on  the  Minnie,  and  his 
wrath  enkindled  mine,  and  I  almost  prayed  for 
another  flash  to  disclose  the  position  of  the 
trench  mortar.  A  long,  fruitless  wait  followed, 
with  no  more  telltale  flashes  in  the  expected 
direction. 

Up  the  trench  a  short  distance  the  parapet  had 
been  smashed  in  in  several  places,  and  Fritz 
kept  raining  his  bombs  on  that  one  spot.  "I 
must  take  a  look  at  the  hell  Fritz's  raising  up  the 
way,"  I  said  to  Captain  Rush.     "So  long,  Cap." 

"Cheeroh,  old  top!"  he  answered.  And  I  left 
him  at  his  post  of  observation.  A  few  moments 
later  I  saw  him  carried  out  of  trench,  his  leg 
and  hip  smashed  to  pulp,  and  the  next  night  in 
the   clearing-station   at   Poperinghe   he    "went 

86 


THE   REAL   FRONT 

west"  without  ever  having  regained  conscious- 
ness. 

Dawn  breaking  over  the  war-saddened  land- 
scape found  the  Minnie  strafe  developing  into  a 
general  engagement.  Bombardier  Mackinley,  a 
trusty  signalman,  stood  beside  me,  with  a  tele- 
phone which  he  had  attached  to  wires  com- 
municating with  our  dugout  in  the  rear,  and 
from  there  to  the  guns.  It  required  the  con- 
stant attention  of  two  linemen  to  keep  up  com- 
munications, as  the  wires  were  being  constantly 
broken  by  shell-fire. 

Just  as  the  dawn  was  breaking  the  Boche 
turned  on  his  artillery  upon  us  with  sudden  and 
intense  fire.  Our  parapet,  already  crumped  in 
in  several  places,  was  now  being  smashed  to 
pieces  and  great  geysers  from  exploding  shells 
shot  up  from  the  trenches.  A  dugout  near  by 
was  smashed  in  like  a  house  of  cards.  That  dug- 
out was  the  company  headquarters  of  the  front 
line.  "The  cap'n's  in  there,  boys!"  a  sergeant 
exclaimed  aghast,  and,  forgetting  all  thought  of 
self,  he  rushed  to  exhume  the  company  com- 
mander. 

The  bombardment  increased  until  one  won- 
dered that  any  living  being  remained  in  our  front 
line.  This  was  undoubtedly  the  prelude  to  a 
Boche  attack.     At  any  moment  now  the  barrage 

87 


THE   REAL   FRONT 

might  lift  and  we  should  see  Fritz  coming  over. 
The  time  had  come  for  that  cry  which  the  front 
line  sends  down  only  in  direst  extremity.  Pick- 
ing up  the  telegraph-key,  I  ticked  away  in  a 
frenzy:  dot,  dot,  dot — dash,  dash,  dash — dot, 
dot,  dot.  Again  and  again  I  repeated  the  signal, 
which  was  the  SOS,  the  cry  for  help  from  the 
front  line.  Bombardier  Mackinley,  hearing  the 
signal,  produced  an  S  O  S  rocket  from  his 
pocket  and  fired  it  from  a  pistol.  A  long  trail  of 
blue-and-crimson  light  shot  up  into  the  sky. 

My  first  task  was  done.  I  saw  Bombardier 
Mackinley  hastily  fixing  a  bayonet  to  the  end  of  a 
rifle.  The  bombardier  expected  his  last  minute 
soon,  and  he  intended  to  sell  his  life  dearly. 
For  a  moment  of  awful  suspense  I  waited,  gazing 
through  the  twilight  mists  of  No  Man's  Land. 
Across  the  waste  country  Fritz's  front  parapet 
could  just  be  discerned  in  the  uncertain  morning 
light.  Suddenly  the  enemy  barrage  lifted,  and 
over  the  top  of  the  enemy  parapet  appeared  a 
dim  mass  of  leaping  figures. 

"They're  coming,  Mackinley!"  I  shouted,  and 
instantaneously  I  heard  the  first  whir  in  answer 
to  our  SOS.  One  battery  was  in  action,  and 
one  after  another  the  others  joined  in.  Before 
five  minutes  had  elapsed  nearly  a  thousand  guns 
had  taken  up  the  note  in  answer  to  our  cry  for 

88 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

help.  The  air  above  our  heads  was  humming  to 
constant  whir  of  shells  as  they  passed  across 
toward  the  enemy's  parapet. 

That  living  wall  of'Germans  advancing  to  the 
attack  was  caught  fairly  and  unawares  in  the 
midst  of  No  Man's  Land.  Down  they  went  like 
so  much  standing  corn,  and  a  wounded  handful 
only  were  able  to  drag  themselves  back  into  the 
safety  of  their  trenches. 

For  nearly  an  hour  our  guns  continued  to 
bombard  the  enemy's  front  line,  while  they  re- 
plied in  kind  on  our  trenches.  An  artillery  duel 
like  this  may  be  good  sport  for  the  gunners,  but 
it's  a  living  hell  for  the  poor  boys  in  the  trenches. 
Like  so  many  rats  they  are  herded  together, 
crouching  under  the  storm,  and  praying  that  it 
may  soon  pass.  To  be  in  the  front  line  when  the 
infantry  are  under  a  bombardment  is  to  under- 
stand why  the  infantry  deserve  the  greatest 
glory  of  this  war.  Beyond  the  cavalry  and  ar- 
tillery and  all  other  arms  of  the  service,  theirs 
is  the  major  price  of  sacrifice  both  in  attack  and 
in  defense. 

An  hour  after  the  dawn  the  enemy  were 
thoroughly  sick  of  the  hell  which  they  had  started. 
For  some  time  their  guns  were  silent.  Our  bat- 
teries continued  slow  fire  for  the  sake  of  having 
the  last  word,  and  then  one  by  one  they  ceased, 

89 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

until  only  a  faint  whirring  here  and  there  re- 
mained of  that  tremendous  symphony  that 
answered  the  SOS. 

A  message  from  battalion  headquarters  brought 
the  assurance  that  the  situation  was  completely 
in  hand.  This  message  was  transmitted  to  the 
battery  in  the  rear.  Soon  a  calm  as  profound  as 
a  Sabbath  day  reigned  on  both  sides.  Our  front 
line  was  smashed  in  several  places.  In  one  spot 
where  the  enemy  fire  had  concentrated,  the 
parapet  was  razed  for  a  distance  of  ten  yards. 
But,  looking  across  through  my  periscope,  I  was 
rejoiced  to  see  that  Fritz's  parapet  had  suffered 
far  worse  than  ours. 

Out  in  No  Man's  Land  the  ground  was  gray 
with  the  bodies  of  dead  Germans  who  had  been 
mowed  down  by  our  machine-guns  and  artillery. 
In  a  strong  redoubt  just  opposite,  broken  beams, 
twisted  rails,  and  sheets  of  corrugated  iron  bore 
•witness  to  the  effectiveness  of  our  howitzer-fire. 
The  registration  on  this  spot  had  been  perfect. 
In  the  words  of  Bombardier  Mackinley,  "We 
put  that  happy  home  on  the  blink  for  fair." 

Stretcher-bearers  were  now  busy  carrying  back 
the  wounded  to  the  first-aid  dressing-station 
situated  in  support  trenches.  Here  they  would 
lie  all  day,  until,  under  cover  of  darkness,  they 
would  be  placed  on  trolleys  drawn  by  horses  two 

90 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

miles  back  to  where  the  field  ambulance  would 
pick  them  up  and  run  them  to  the  clearing- 
station. 

The  dead  lay  in  the  trenches  all  day.  At 
night  they  would  be  buried  by  working  parties 
of  pioneers.  As  I  left  the  fire-trench  it  had 
changed  again  from  the  real  front  to  a  place  of 
rustic  peace.  True,  the  shell-holes  abounded, 
but  there  was  no  sound  of  strife.  It  was  a  sum- 
mer morning.  High  up  in  the  blue  an  aeroplane 
was  humming  to  the  sun.  Along  the  side  of 
communicating  trenches  the  green  grass  was 
growing.  Here  and  there  tall  daisies  waved  their 
heads,  and  buttercups  and  crimson  poppies  grew. 

At  our  dugout  I  found  that  two  of  the  line- 
men engaged  in  mending  wires  had  been  wounded. 
They  had  gone  to  the  dressing-station  and  the 
others  were  busy  preparing  breakfast.  The  reg- 
ular routine  of  the  trenches  had  begun  again  and, 
despite  the  hell  of  an  hour  before,  life  had  re- 
sumed the  calm  and  normal  round  of  a  village 
at  home. 

The  springing  of  a  mine  is  one  of  the  most 
deadly  and  insidious  forms  of  attack  in  this 
present  war.  It  is  a  fruitful  cause  of  nerves  to 
all  those  who  are  engaged  in  it.  Working  down 
into  the  earth  in  total  darkness,  often  right  under 
the  enemy  position,  never  knowing  at  what  mo- 

91 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

merit  discovery  may  come,  and  death  from  bomb- 
ing or,  worse  still,  from  being  buried  alive,  it  is 
no  wonder  that  those  who  are  mining  or  counter- 
mining are  subject  to  attacks  of  nerves. 

I  knew  an  officer  who  while  in  the  infantry  was 
noted  for  his  sang-froid.  He  had  been  in  the 
Yukon  gold  rush,  and  later  through  a  troublous 
career  in  Mexico.  One  of  his  men,  referring  to 
him,  said,  "Cap'n's  been  at  the  fightin'  game  so 
long  that  he  thinks  that  they  can't  make  a  bullet 
to  hit  him." 

After  he  had  been  with  a  mining  company  for 
a  month  this  devil-may-care  adventurer  was  as 
shaky  as  an  old  woman.  "It's  that  workin'  down 
in  the  dark  and  waiting  for  the  foe  that  you  can 
never  see  that  gets  a  chap,"  he  said. 

If  a  premonition  has  been  given  just  before  a 
mine  goes  up,  the  feeling  of  suspense  in  the  front 
line  is  like  that  on  board  a  doomed  ship.  The 
order  is  given  to  abandon  the  trench,  and  in 
their  frenzy  every  man  rushes  for  safety  in  the 
rear.  But  not  every  man  can  leave.  Sentries 
must  still  man  the  parapet;  they  remain  at  the 
post  of  duty  till  death.  The  chaps  who  did  the 
Birkenhead  drill,  or  the  sentry  who  stood  to  his 
post  in  Pompeii  have  nothing  on  the  sentry  on 
the  front  line  who  stands  by  his  post  of  duty 
while  the  mine  is  being  sprung  under  his  feet. 

92 


THE   REAL    FRONT 

On  one  occasion  we  were  abandoning  a  trench 
where  the  explosion  of  a  mine  was  imminent; 
it  was  pitch  dark  and  the  night  was  perfectly  quiet 
when  there  came  the  dread  premonition  of  a 
mine.  The  order  was  given  for  all  except  the 
sentries  to  retire,  and  in  a  panic  of  fear  I  rushed 
to  the  communicating  trench. 

There  flashed  before  me  the  momentary  pic- 
ture of  a  sentry,  at  his  post  of  duty,  standing  on 
the  rim  of  the  fire-trench,  with  fixed  bayonet, 
firm  and  imperturable,  gazing  into  the  gloom  of 
No  Man's  Land.  Under  his  feet  were  the  rock- 
ings  of  an  earthquake  that  soon  should  engulf 
him.  But  though  the  earth  were  removed,  his 
duty  remained,  and  he  as  a  soldier  stood  firm. 
A  few  moments  later  in  the  midst  of  a  reverber- 
ating roar  he  went  up  with  the  mine.  The 
momentary  and  flashing  glimpse  of  that  gallant 
sentry  remains  for  me  my  most  heroic,  soul-en- 
kindling memory  of  two  years  of  war. 

Sometimes  in  the  springing  of  a  mine  no  warn- 
ing whatever  is  given.  With  a  roar  that  is  heard 
for  a  hundred  miles  or  more,  the  bowels  of  the 
earth  burst  forth  and  whole  regiments  are  swept 
away.  Human  beings  and  trenches  alike  are 
tossed  as  from  a  giant  geyser  in  a  soaring  flood  of 
fire  and  smoke  and  debris. 

I  saw  a  mine  like  this  sprung  without  warning 

93 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

on  the  Third  Canadian  Division.  My  division, 
the  First  Canadians,  were  holding  trenches  just 
in  front  of  Hill  60,  at  Ypres.  The  Third  Division 
was  on  our  left.  It  was  about  eight  o'clock  on  a 
beautiful  June  morning,  a  profound  peace  was 
reigning,  when,  without  the  slightest  warning, 
there  came  a  deep  roar  such  as  I  had  never  heard 
before,  and  the  trenches  to  our  left  were  literally 
swept  hundreds  of  feet  into  the  air.  In  this  aw- 
ful mine  perished  Major-General  Mercer,  C.B., 
and  the  flower  of  the  Third  Canadian  Division. 
So  out  of  peace  profound,  by  the  springing  of  a 
mine,  the  worst  aspect  of  the  real  front  may 
suddenlv  reveal  itself. 


VI 

ON  OUR  STREET   OF  ADVENTURE 

TORD  NORTHCLIFFE  says  that  next  to  the 
"*~^  war,  the  newspaper  game  is  the  greatest 
game  in  the  world.  Fleet  Street,  the  newspaper 
row  of  London,  is  known  among  press  men  as 
the  "Street  of  Adventure." 

The  front-line  trench  is  the  Street  of  Adventure 
for  the  greatest  game  in  the  world.  All  the 
tin-ills  and  joys  of  Fleet  Street  grow  pale  before 
the  excitements  that  crowd  one  another  along 
that  ultimate  thoroughfare  of  battle. 

"There's  something  happening  inside  the  big 
tent  here  every  minute,"  said  a  western  Cana- 
dian. In  my  experience  I  never  found  many  dull 
moments  in  the  front  line.  In  supports,  in  billets, 
or  at  the  gims,  time  might  hang  heavy,  but  not  so 
in  the  fire-trench. 

The  place  which  we  describe  by  that  much- 
used  phrase,  "the  front  line,"  is  the  last  line  of 
defense  that  stands  between  us  and  the  foe. 
In  America  the  domain  of  democracy  seems  vast 

95 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

indeed.  But  the  firing-line  is  democracy's  last 
frontier.  If  that  thin  line  should  break,  au- 
tocracy would  replace  liberty,  and  civilization  be 
swallowed  up  in  barbarism. 

If  one  were  to  ascend  in  an  aeroplane  above 
the  fighting-area,  he  would  see  that  the  ground 
for  a  great  distance  on  both  sides  is  made 
up  of  a  network  of  trenches,  extending 
back  sometimes  to  a  distance  of  half  a  mile  or 
more. 

All  this  area  may  be  called  trenches,  but  the 
real  Street  of  Adventure  is  the  front  line.  That 
is  where  the  tide  of  battle  on  both  sides  finally 
froze  and  held. 

The  question  is  often  raised,  Why  is  the  firing- 
line  laid  out  in  such  and  such  a  position?  Why 
are  opposite  trenches  fifty  yards  apart  at  one 
place,  and  several  hundred  yards  apart  at  an- 
other? This  was  determined  by  the  exigencies  of 
battle.  In  the  beginning  the  two  armies  faced 
each  other  in  the  open  and  the  tide  of  battle 
shifted  back  and  forth.  Then  one  side  dug  in, 
and  held.  And  the  other  side  was  forced  to  dig 
in  also;   thus  the  trenches  began. 

One  approaches  through  the  communicating 
trenches,  winding  in  and  out  of  circuitous  lanes, 
ever  bumping  his  steel  helmet  against  the  trav- 
erses, and  losing  himself  in  labyrinthine  passages, 

96 


ON    OUR    STREET    OF   ADVENTURE 

until  at  last  he  bursts  out  with  relief  into  that 
momentous  place,  the  front  line. 

A  parapet  of  sand-bags  and  dirt  rises  to  a 
height  of  seven  feet  against  the  sky.  The  fire- 
step  is  dug  along  the  side  of  the  parapet.  Here 
the  sentry  mounts  on  guard,  and  here  the  soldiers 
stand  with  fixed  bayonets  when  the  parapets  are 
manned. 

The  parapets  are  manned  just  after  dusk  at 
night,  and  just  before  the  dawn  in  the  morning. 
These  are  two  very  critical  periods  in  the  trenches, 
and  are  regarded  as  especially  liable  to  sudden 
attack  from  the  enemy.  These  periods  are  re- 
ferred to  as  from  "stand  to"  to  "stand  down." 

Along  the  ground  in  the  front  line  is  laid  a 
narrow  walk  of  short  boards.  These  boards  are 
known  as  the  "bath-mats."  " Hugging  the  bath- 
mats,"  a  common  phrase  in  the  trenches,  means 
lying  down  on  your  belly  while  the  shells  are  go- 
ing overhead. 

The  first  night  I  went  into  the  trenches  I  was 
greeted  by  a  cockney  who  exclaimed,  "Oi  soiy, 
ole  sport,  'ow  tall  are  you?" 

"Six  feet  three,"  I  answered. 

"Well,  oi'll  give  you  abawt  fifteen  minutes  up 

front,"    he    announced,    optimistically.     "Moi 

mate  was  a  bally  long  bloke,  jist  the  same  as 

yerself.     'E  conies  in  one  blinkin'  night  at  six 
7  97 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

o'clock,  an'  Fritz  copped  'im  before  seven,  right 
in  the  'ead  it  were.  'E  was  dead  as  a  door-nail. 
You're  jist  'is  size,  you  are." 

In  deference  to  this  first  greeting,  I  immedi- 
ately learned  how  to  "hug  the  bath-mats"  at  the 
slightest  provocation. 

On  quiet  days  one  may  move  up  and  down  the 
front  line  with  the  utmost  freedom.  Indeed,  on 
a  sunny  morning,  walking  up  and  down  the  nar- 
row board  walk,  the  peace  is  often  equal  to  what 
you  would  find  in  your  own  back  garden.  But  a 
figure  regarding  a  mirror  fixed  at  the  end  of  a 
bayonet,  or  an  officer  gazing  through  a  periscope, 
reminds  one  that  the  board  walk  is  laid  on  epic 
ground.  At  any  minute  this  spot  may  become 
the  storm  center  of  battle.  Regarded  in  this 
setting,  the  dirt-covered  figures  lounging  along 
the  fire-step  become  Homeric  in  their  significance. 

By  night  the  front-line  trench  presents  a  spec- 
tacular display  before  which  Coney  Island  would 
grow  pale.  For  miles  the  firing-line  is  dis- 
cernible by  magnesium  flares  and  star-shells  that 
are  forever  rising  in  the  darkness.  A  quiet  night 
means  few  flares.  But  a  raid,  the  springing  of  a 
mine,  or  a  sudden  bombardment,  means  a  perfect 
cloudburst  of  pyrotechnics.  At  night  on  our 
Street  of  Adventure  we  can  not  only  hear  the 
battle  with  our  ears,  we  can  see  it  with  our  eyes. 


ON   OUR    STREET   OF   ADVENTURE 

Many  pictures  have  attempted  to  portray  a 
battle  on  the  firing-line  at  night.  But  they  can 
only  give  a  faint  conception.  Thousands  of 
rockets  trace  their  lurid  way  across  the  blackness. 
Innumerable  magnesium  flares  unroll  like  ribbons 
of  silver  across  the  sky;  with  iridescent  whiteness 
the  star-shells  burst  above  the  lines,  while  SOS 
rockets,  red,  and  blue,  and  yellow,  and  green, 
add  an  awful  touch  of  color  to  the  scene.  SOS 
rockets  mean  a  human  cry  translated  into  colored 
light  and  flashed  across  the  night. 

Life  on  the  firing-line  is  not,  as  some  suppose, 
a  round  of  endless  fighting.  Trench  warfare,  the 
same  as  the  open  warfare,  is  a  series  of  battles 
interspersed  with  periods  of  calm. 

Often  the  calm  is  deepest  just  before  the  storm. 
The  darkness  of  the  night  may  enfold  the  battle- 
front  with  no  sound  but  the  whispering  winds, 
and  no  sight  but  the  twinkling  stars.  The  mind 
of  the  sentry,  from  the  mood  of  the  hour,  may  be 
lost  in  thoughts  of  home  and  love.  Suddenly, 
without  any  warning,  the  profound  peace  of  the 
night  is  broken.  There  is  a  muffled  rumbling, 
followed  by  a  reverberating  roar,  and  where  a 
moment  before  there  was  a  peaceful  trench  a 
ghastly  crater  now  yawns,  out  of  which  come  fire 
and  smoke  and  the  groans  of  dying  men. 

The  enemy  have  sprung  a  mine,  the  most 

99 


THE   REAL   FRONT 

deadly  and  insidious  form  of  attack  in  modern 
warfare.  There  is  a  wide  open  gap  in  our  de- 
fense. The  men  on  the  right  and  left  flanks  of 
the  crater  are  dazed  from  the  concussion.  In  a 
moment  the  foe  will  be  at  hand,  with  bombs  and 
bayonets,  to  occupy  the  crater. 

An  officer  whose  nerves  have  been  so  shattered 
by  the  shock  that  his  whole  frame  shakes,  fires  a 
rocket  with  trembling  and  uncertain  hand.  Far 
up  through  the  night  soars  a  long  trail  of  blue- 
and-crimson  light.  Down  the  trench  some  one 
has  sent  another.  This  is  the  SOS  signal,  the 
cry  for  help  from  the  front  line  to  the  guns  in 
the  rear.  Behind  at  each  battery  are  the  SOS 
sentries  straining  their  eyes  through  the  darkness, 
waiting  for  this  signal. 

The  appearance  of  this  rocket  is  for  them  as 
the  stroke  of  the  alarm  for  the  fireman.  A  mo- 
ment before  all  at  the  battery  were  sleeping 
soundly;  only  the  march  of  the  sentry  was  heard. 
Now  a  voice  cries,  "S  O  S!  Battery  action!" 
and  out  of  the  dugouts  or  the  pits  where  they 
sleep  the  gun  crews  leap  to  their  appointed  place. 

By  night  or  by  day  the  guns  are  always  laid 

on  permanent  lines,  known  as  S  O  S  targets, 

vulnerable  spots  of  the  enemy  to  be  bombarded  in 

an  emergency. 

Down  in  the  gun-pit  there  is  a  rush  of  figures, 

100 


ON    OUR   STREET   OF   ADVENTURE 

the  crash  of  a  breech-block,  a  muffled  order,  and 
the  lightning  leaps  from  the  mouth  of  a  gun.  In 
one  minute  twenty  rounds  have  been  fired,  and 
from  far  and  near  the  night  awakens  to  unbroken 
thunder,  as  a  thousand  other  guns  take  up  the 
note. 

A  few  moments  later  at  divisional  headquarters 
a  general  in  summery  attire  gasps,  "Thank  God!" 
as  the  group  artillery  commander  informs  him 
that  "  The  barrage  of  our  guns  held  up  the  enemy 
while  our  infantry  were  able  to  occupy  the 
crater  and  consolidate." 

Up  in  the  front-line  trench  a  company  com- 
mander, encountering  the  forward  observing  of- 
ficer of  the  artillery,  exclaims:  "We've  got  to 
hand  it  to  your  boys  down  behind  at  the  guns. 
They're  on  their  job  down  there,  all  right." 

A  quick  reply  to  an  S  O  S  cry  for  help  from 
the  artillery  is  an  eloquent  testimony  to  the 
efficiency  and  spirit  of  the  crews  who  serve  the 
guns.  Such  action  as  this  calls  for  the  finest  team 
work;  each  man  has  his  exact  place  and  in- 
stinctively at  the  alarm  he  leaps  to  his  post  and 
with  utmost  speed  and  precision  performs  his 
appointed  task.  A  football  team  might  watch 
with  envy  the  accuracy  and  lightning  speed  with 
which  each  man  goes  through  his  movement  and 

the  perfect  combination  of  the  total  crew.    They 

101 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

go  through  the  different  tasks  with  the  regularity 
of  clockwork;  only  their  perspiring  faces  and 
their  pantings  for  breath  remind  one  that  they 
are  not  mere  machines. 

No  matter  how  quiet  the  day  or  night,  there  is 
always  an  air  of  imminency  and  expectancy  in 
the  fire-trench.  On  this  front-line  Street  of 
Adventure  one  meets  the  truest  men  of  his  time. 
There  there  is  a  real  democracy  and  a  real 
brotherhood.  The  mere  fact  that  each  is  there 
demands  respect  from  the  other. 

The  purest  form  of  democracy  we  find  exist- 
ing in  the  front  line.  It  is  like  that  of  Main 
Street  in  a  country  town.  Everybody  knows 
everybody,  and  we  are  all  interested  in  the 
others'  affairs — that  is,  in  quiet  times.  Of  course 
the  chief  interest  during  a  fight  is  to  kill  a  Fritz 
or  to  save  your  skin. 

I  remember  one  morning  meeting  a  high  general 
walking  along  in  the  bay  of  a  fire-trench.  As  I 
saluted  him  he  smiled  and  exclaimed,  cordially: 
"  Good  morning,  my  boy !  It's  a  beautiful  morn- 
ing.    How  is  everything  up  here  with  you?" 

For  all  the  rest  of  that  day  I  went  about  with  a 
smile  upon  my  face  and  happiness  within  be- 
cause such  a  high  general  had  spoken  to  me.  It 
didn't  mean  much  to  the  general,  but  it  held  a 
world  of  joy  for  a  mere  artillery  subaltern.     This 

102 


ON    OUR   STREET    OF    ADVENTURE 

fine  courtesy  is  one  of  the  charming  characteristics 
of  any  true  British  officer.  And  sometimes  it 
seems  to  me  that  it  is  more  developed  in  officers 
of  highest  rank. 

Among  my  priceless  memories  of  the  real  front 
is  that  of  junior  headquarters  mess  in  the  line. 
Among  ourselves  we  often  referred  to  this  mess 
as  the  "Finest  Club  in  the  World,"  and  its  young 
members  have  perhaps  made  a  good  bid  for  the 
title. 

The  headquarters  mess  includes  the  colonel, 
adjutant,  medical  officer,  and  chaplain,  if  he  is 
forward.  They  mess  at  battalion  headquarters, 
which  is  a  becomingly  staid  place. 

The  junior  headquarters  mess  includes  the 
scout  officer,  machine-gun  officer,  bombing  officer, 
trench-mortar  officer,  intelligence  officer,  and 
sometimes  the  forward  observing  officer.  Mem- 
bership in  this,  the  Finest  Club  in  the  World,  is 
not  apt  to  be  of  long  duration,  as  its  members 
frequently  "go  west."  During  the  period  of 
their  active  membership  they  represent  many 
of  the  stars  on  the  stage  of  the  world  war.  Of 
course  the  generals'  names  are  splashed  across  the 
billboards.  But  we  who  have  really  been  there 
know  that  these  mere  boys  are  the  leading  actors 
on  the  stage.  Generals  may  direct  the  scenery, 
but  it  is  for  the  junior  officers  to  carry  out  the 

103 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

drama.  Hence  the  saying,  "This  is  a  subalterns* 
war." 

In  a  consequential  club  not  long  ago  I  was 
toted  around  by  a  friend  who  pointed  out  to  me 
"men  of  real  importance  in  the  world  to-day." 
Let  me  point  out  to  you  in  the  dugout  of  the 
Suicide  Club  several  young  men  of  real  impor- 
tance on  the  real  front. 

It  is  about  the  hour  of  two  in  the  morning,  or 
£  ack  emma,  as  we  say  it  in  the  trenches,  ack 
emma  standing  for  a.m.  The  group  are  gathered 
around  a  table  of  rough  boards  on  which  several 
gutted  candles  are  burning.  The  dugout  is  deep 
and  full  of  shadow,  but  the  light  around  the 
table  shows  a  group  with  ruddy  faces  and 
sparkling  eyes.  The  intelligence  officer,  known 
as  "Brains,"  has  received  a  box  of  cigars  from 
home,  and,  true  to  the  communistic  instinct  of 
the  front  line,  he  has  turned  them  over  to  the 
crowd. 

"This  is  a  little  bit  of  orl  right,"  said  Walker, 
the  fair-haired,  blue-eyed  scout  officer.  He  was 
the  most  boyish  of  them  all.  It  seemed  like  a 
joke  to  see  such  a  stripling  smoking  such  a  big 
cigar. 

"Go  easy  on  that  cheroot,  cherub,  or  another 
mother's  darling  will  be  missing,"  jeered  Bobby 
Cameron,    the    machine-gun    officer.     Walker's 

104. 


ON    OUR    STREET    OF    ADVENTURE 

answer  was  to  half-close  his  bright  blue  eyes  and 
to  send  a  cloud  of  smoke  rings  curling  up  into 
the  shadows.  A  half  an  hour  before  this  un- 
sophisticated youth,  with  never  a  care  in  the 
world,  was  on  the  other  side  of  No  Man's  Land, 
with  his  ear  against  the  German  parapet,  listen- 
ing to  the  Fritzes  talking  in  their  own  trenches. 
On  his  breast  Walker  wore  the  ribbon  of  the 
D.  S.  O.  and  of  the  military  cross.  He  was  one 
of  the  pioneers  of  raiding,  an  originator  of  a  new 
departure  in  trench  warfare. 

Walker  was  only  a  boy  in  appearance,  but  into 
his  life  already  he  had  crowded  the  thrilling 
experiences  of  many  men.  There  was  a  day 
when  the  waste  land  between  the  trenches  was  a 
forbidden  and  inscrutable  country.  Walker  and 
some  of  his  friends  did  an  unheard-of  thing — 
they  raided  the  German  trenches  one  night,  caus- 
ing a  panic,  and  brought  back  many  prisoners. 
Since  then,  thanks  to  the  innovation  of  Walker 
and  his  friends,  raids  have  become  the  regular 
order  of  the  day. 

When  Fritz  knew  that  Walker's  battalion  was 
holding  the  opposite  line  he  respectfully  remained 
in  his  own  trenches.  As  Corporal  Dawson  put 
it,  "The  Boche  don't  show  his  peek-a-boo  beyond 
his  own  wire  when  our  chaps  is  in  front  of  them." 

105 


THE   REAL   FRONT 

Walker's  battalion  were  known  as  the  "Kings 
of  No  Man's  Land,"  and  to  watch  the  non- 
chalance with  which  this  fair-haired  lad  and  his 
scouts  disappeared  over  the  parapet  in  a  dark 
night  was  to  understand  the  meaning  of  the 
phrase.  Out  in  the  dread  country  between  the 
trenches  they  held  undisputed  sway,  indeed  under 
them  the  name  of  No  Man's  Land  had  been 
changed  to  the  "Dominion  of  Canada." 

Just  outside  of  the  dugout  of  the  Suicide  Club 
the  voice  of  Andy  Morrison,  the  bombing  of- 
ficer, was  heard.  "What  are  you  taking  over 
with  you  on  the  raid  to-night,  Leery — a  re- 
volver?" 

"I'm  taking  a  two-pound  hammer,"  answered 
the  strident  voice  of  Leery. 

"And  an  awful  man  he  is  with  that  hammer," 
laughed  Walker.  "He  must  have  been  a  black- 
jacker  or  a  butcher's  assistant  in  civil  life." 

"I  don't  know  myself  if  it  isn't  the  best  weapon 
in  a  rough-and-tumble  fight,"  declared  Bobby 
Cameron.  "When  the  Boche  were  thick  around 
my  machine-gun  at  St.-Julien,  it  was  that  big 
corporal  of  mine  with  a  piece  of  lead  pipe  that 
swept  the  decks  clean." 

Andy  Morrison  then  jumped  down  into  the 
dugout.  Morrison  was  the  inventor  of  the 
phrase  "Bombers  have  a  cat-in-hell  chance  of 

106 


ON    OUR    STREET   OF   ADVENTURE 

seeing  their  second  month  in  the  line."  But 
despite  this  gloomy  prophecy  he  had  seen  many 
months  in  the  line,  and  had  passed  unscathed. 
He  began  as  a  bombing  officer  in  the  days  when 
for  bombs  we  filled  jam-tins  with  amatol.  These 
primitive  grenades,  called  Tickler's  artillery,  after 
Tickler's  jam-tins,  were  often  more  devilish  to 
ourselves  than  to  our  foe.  With  the  perfection  of 
the  Mills  bomb,  Morrison  announced  that  life  for 
him  was  almost  becoming  humdrum. 

I  shall  not  introduce  you  to  all  the  interesting 
ones  in  the  Suicide  Club  that  night,  but  Bobby 
Cameron  is  one  whom  you  must  remember. 
Bobby  was  always  twitting  Walker  about  his 
youth,  yet  he  was  not  quite  a  month  older  than 
the  scout  officer.  These  two  juveniles  were  often 
referred  to  as  the  heavenly  twins.  Bobby, 
though  young  in  years,  was  the  oldest  of  the 
old-timers.  He  had  been  on  the  line  since  the 
beginning,  and  was  the  coolest,  nerviest  chap 
that  I  had  encountered.  He  has  long  since 
"gone  west,"  winning  the  Victoria  Cross  in  his 
passing.  But  his  memory  is  bright  with  all  old- 
timers. 

The  intelligence  officer,  known  as  "Brains," 
is  supposed  to  be  the  vade-mecum  of  all  knowl- 
edge in  the  front  line.  If  any  information  is  re- 
quired, the  answer  invariably  is,  "Ask  Brains." 

107 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

The  trench-mortar  officer,  and  the  bombing  of- 
ficer, hold  two  very  unwholesome  jobs,  which, 
strange  to  relate,  are  much  sought  after.  As 
Andy  Morrison,  of  the  bombers,  cheerfully  ob- 
served, "Our  chances  of  sprouting  daisies  are 
always  of  the  best." 

The  most  sought-after  positions  at  the  front 
are  not  the  safe  and  easy  places,  but  the  tasks 
of  greatest  danger.  When  one  man  will  apply 
for  the  post  as  inspector  of  supplies  at  the  base, 
a  hundred  will  volunteer  for  the  bombers  or 
trench  mortars. 

An  air  of  suppressed  merriment  pervades  the 
dugout  of  the  Suicide  Club  and  there  is  always 
a  bubbling  over  into  laughter.  A  crowd  of  ir- 
repressibles in  the  dormitory  of  a  boys'  school 
are  the  nearest  approach  to  this  group  in  the 
junior  headquarters  mess,  only  the  dormitory  does 
not  possess  such  a  uniform  exuberance  of  spirit. 

In  spite  of  all  the  hardships  and  all  the  dangers 
along  our  front-line  Street  of  Adventure,  it  is 
always  a  place  of  happiness.  Each  man  is 
blessed  by  that  deep  calm  that  comes  alone  to 
those  who  are  doing  their  duty.  Others  at  home 
in  places  of  ease  may  worry  and  fret,  but  these 
men  who  are  doing  their  duty  to  the  full  may 
greet  the  darkest  future  undismayed  and  with  a 
cheer. 

108 


ON   OUR   STREET   OF   ADVENTURE 

A  man  at  the  front  who  started  out  to  take  it 
seriously  would  be  in  the  madhouse  in  less  than 
a  month.  But  the  light-hearted  ones,  escaping 
Minnies  and  Lizzies,  may  go  on  indefinitely. 
The  successful  soldier  of  the  trenches  never  loses 
an  opportunity  for  happiness.  He  often  de- 
velops into  a  more  care-free,  merry  lad  than 
he  was  at  school  ten  years  before.  The  light 
heart  in  the  midst  of  danger  and  tribulation  is 
our  last  invincible  defense. 


VII 


THE    END    OF    A   BITTER    DAY 

l~N  the  chateau  park  the  shells  were   falling 

"*•  thick  as  leaves  in  an  autumn  forest.     The 

nightfall   was  bitter  and  gray.     The   sunshine 

with  which  the  day  began  long  since  had  fled. 

Fast-moving  somber  clouds  were  blotting  out  the 

sky,  while  squalls  of  wailing  wind  gave  promise 

of  a  night  of  storm. 

Along  the  road  that  dipped  beyond  the  chateau 

park    a    line    of    troops    were    passing.     They 

marched  in  single  file  with  serried  intervals  and 

apprehensive   step,    like   hunted   deer,    moving 

swiftly  at  the  double,  then  falling  flat  upon  their 

faces,  while  the  blast  of  death  went  hurtling 

overhead. 

The  men  wore  helmets  covered  with  the  same 

material    as    the    sand-bags    of    the    trenches. 

Their  uniforms  were  in  color  like  the  dust  of  the 

road.     On  their  shoulders  they  bore  great  packs; 

their  rifles  were  carried  at  the  trail.    When  they 

no 


THE   END   OF   A   BITTER   DAY 

doubled  they  were  oppressed  by  these  toiling 
burdens. 

Ever  since  noon  over  the  dip  of  the  road  in  an 
endless  chain  the  troops  had  been  passing. 
Sometimes  a  fatal  shell  fell  athwart  that  human 
chain,  and  one,  two,  three,  or  more  went  down. 
There  was  a  rush  of  stretcher-bearers,  and  limp 
figures  were  removed.  But  the  column  did  not 
waver.  The  broken  links  were  closed,  and  the 
endless  chain  moved  on.  Whatever  else  might 
happen,  the  firing-line  must  be  fed,  and  these 
marching  men  could  know  no  pause. 

Inside  the  chateau  the  thick  walls  muffied 
every  noise,  the  sound  of  the  guns  seemed  far 
away,  and  the  cry  of  the  stricken  could  not  be 
heard. 

When  the  storm  began  I  was  afraid  that  the 
chateau  would  soon  be  about  our  heads,  but  the 
calm  of  the  brigadier  gave  me  faith  in  the  in- 
vulnerability of  the  walls.  The  great,  dark, 
paneled  room  was  wrapped  in  gloom.  The 
brigadier  sat  in  a  chair  beside  the  window,  the 
adjutant  sat  at  a  'phone,  almost  obscured. 

As  I  gazed  at  the  face  of  the  brigadier  that 

tornado  of  battle  without  seemed  in  another 

world.    His  long,  lean  frame  was  sunken  deep 

into  his  chair.    In  the  twilight  all  his  minor 

features  were  lost,  but  a  bold,  high  forehead,  a 

in 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

pallid  countenance,  and  eyes  as  black  as  the 
night  itself  were  clearly  discerned.  The  red  and 
gold  of  his  insignia  gave  the  one  relieving  touch 
of  color.  Looking  upon  hiin,  sitting  there  so 
somber  and  aloof  in  the  gloom  of  the  chateau, 
I  seemed  to  be  regarding  a  portrait  by  Reubens 
or  some  old  Flemish  master. 

Outside,  the  shell-swept  dip  of  the  road  and 
the  hunted  figures  reminded  one  of  battle.  But 
in  the  room  with  the  brigadier  there  dwelt  the 
calm  of  vespers.  Once  during  the  early  after- 
noon a  shell  came  crashing  through  the  upper 
stories  of  the  chateau.  I  was  all  atremble. 
But  the  brigadier,  with  whom  I  was  conversing 
at  that  moment,  merely  raised  his  eyebrows  and 
with  cold  indifference  announced :  "  That's  pretty 
close,  my  boy.  Go  on,  my  boy,  go  on.  Don't 
let  that  interrupt  you." 

Now  and  again  a  sudden  ring  of  the  'phone 
told  of  a  frantic  cry  from  the  trenches  or  the 
guns.  Often  the  adjutant  breathed  with  excite- 
ment as  he  uttered  portentous  news.  Some- 
times there  was  a  pause  while  the  chief  glanced 
at  a  map  or  pondered  dispositions.  But  his  im- 
perturbable calm  was  unbroken,  and  always  in 
that  quiet,  low-spoken  voice  he  gave  his  answer. 

Only  once  in  that  long  and  trying  day  did  I 

hear  his  accent  change.    He  was  for  some  time 

112 


THE    END    OF    A    BITTER    DAY 

without  a  message  from  a  certain  forward  ob- 
serving officer.  "What's  he  there  for?"  he  ex- 
claimed, testily,  and,  taking  the  'phone,  he  laid 
down  the  law  in  the  terms  of  a  soldier. 

Many  a  time  thereafter,  when  I  had  been  far 
forward  in  the  midst  of  battle,  there  came  with  a 
steadying  peace  the  picture  of  that  brigadier. 
Two  weeks  later  our  line  was  suddenly  pierced 
by  the  foe.  Consternation  reigned  in  the 
trenches.  During  those  awful  moments  of  sus- 
pense, while  I  sat  in  battalion  headquarters 
telegraphing  to  our  guns,  there  flashed  before  me 
in  the  shadow  the  memory  of  that  serene  and 
steadfast  face.  In  a  moment  of  such  impotence 
for  us  the  memory  of  the  bragadier  seemed  tran- 
scendental as  the  thought  of  God  Himself. 

My  days'  confinement  in  the  chateau  came  by 
the  chance  of  battle.  We  were  taken  over  from 
another  battery,  and  I  had  been  sent  forward  to 
acquaint  myself  with  the  zone  of  fire.  In  the 
early  morning  I  had  ridden  across  country  for 
five  miles  with  my  groom.  At  the  right-group 
artillery  headquarters  I  was  to  receive  a  guide  to 
direct  me  through  to  the  guns.  The  right-group 
headquarters  I  found  situated  in  a  chateau 
famous  throughout  Belgium  for  its  miraculous 
escape  from  the  shells.  I  left  my  horse  in  the 
care  of  the  groom  in  the  stables,  and  entered  the 

8  113 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

room  reserved  as  headquarters.  Before  any  ex- 
planations could  be  entered  into  our  calm  was 
broken.  The  Hun  let  loose  a  mine  beneath  our 
trenches,  and  even  where  we  were  the  ground 
was  shaken  from  the  vast  reverberation.  In  a 
twinkling  all  the  enemy's  artillery  was  in  action. 
We  had  been  plunged  without  the  slightest  warn- 
ing from  the  peace  of  a  springtime  morning  into 
the  wildest  inferno  of  battle.  A  message  from 
the  battery  to  which  I  was  going  later  sent  me 
instructions  to  wait  until  a  barrage  which  cut 
off  their  approach  had  been  lifted.  All  day  I 
waited,  and  at  night  I  received  instructions  to 
return  to  the  wagon-lines  to  convoy  ammunition. 

We  had  had  a  month  of  calm,  an  unheard-of 
experience  in  the  salient  of  Ypres.  With  the  suc- 
cession of  uneventful  days,  and  the  serenity  of 
the  springtime,  we  had  almost  forgotten  that 
world  of  war  in  which  we  dwelt.  Men  came  out 
of  the  trenches  and  returned  again,  just  as  those 
at  home  went  to  their  daily  tasks.  Life  took  on 
an  almost  peaceful  round. 

Among  the  cavalry  and  the  artillery  we  had  a 
horse-show,  and  the  infantry  while  out  at  rest 
indulged  in  a  festive  day  of  sports.  At  the 
wagon-lines  the  monotony  of  life  was  beginning 
to  pall.  I  was  glad  when  the  major  said  to  me, 
"You're  for  the  guns  to-morrow." 

114 


THE    END    OF   A    BITTER   DAY 

As  usual,  I  went  to  town  for  my  last  night  out, 
and  found  the  place  ahum  with  excitement. 
Yvonne,  the  belle  of  the  Estaminet  des  Trois 
Amis,  was  smiling  and  dealing  out  beer  to  a  host 
of  ruddy  admirers.  Every  eating-place  was 
crowded  with  troops,  glad  for  a  change  from 
army  rations.  The  streets  were  full  of  happy 
faces.  Old  friends  everywhere  were  exchanging 
greetings  or  collecting  for  hilarious  discussion. 

"Hello,  bo!  Ain't  you  gone  west  yet?"  ex- 
claimed a  chap  who  had  been  in  the  same  regi- 
ment with  me  in  1914.  "Why,"  he  reproached 
in  feigned  distress,  "I  thought  that  you  were 
sprouting  daisies  long  ago." 

"The  same  to  you,  old-timer,"  I  answered. 
"We  are  certainly  both  long  overdue  for  our 
harp  and  crown." 

Everywhere  the  streets  of  the  little  town 
seemed  to  effervesce  with  merriment  and  glad- 
ness. 

The  next  night  through  that  same  happy 
little  town  the  ambulances  were  rushing  with 
their  streams  of  wounded.  Motor-buses  were 
pouring  in  with  supports  from  the  far-back 
country.  All  the  old  faces  had  been  swept  into 
the  valley  of  death,  or  beyond.  Through  the 
laughing  streets  the  bugles  had  sounded  "Alarm !" 
Men  had  left  their  beer  undrunk,  their  meals 

115 


THE   REAL   FRONT 

uneaten;  in  the  shops  they  had  dropped  their 
purchases;  from  street  corners  and  baths,  from 
canteens  and  billets,  they  came  to  the  points  of 
assembly  with  a  rush,  adjusting  rifles  and  equip- 
ment as  they  came.  There  were  a  few  sharp 
orders,  and  the  men  had  marched  away. 

Last  night  in  the  Estaminet  des  Trois  Amis  all 
was  blithesome  and  light-hearted.  But  the 
black  hand  of  war  again  had  swept  those  merry 
lads  into  inferno,  and  little  Yvonne  sobbed  to 
herself  as  she  sat  alone  and  desolate. 

The  foundations  of  our  world  of  yesterday 
seemed  as  established  as  the  hills;  to-day  they 
are  as  mist.  Yesterday  I  stood  at  attention 
while  the  major-general  of  a  division  passed. 
Tommies  and  mere  junior  officers  might  come 
and  go,  but  that  resplendent  general  passing  in 
his  luxurious  limousine  seemed  fixed  and  set. 
Indeed,  had  I  not  said  to  myself  as  he  passed, 
"His  future  is  secure."  But  in  the  chateau  on 
that  bitter  evening  the  adjutant  announced  in 
tones  of  awe,  "The  general  of  the  division  hold- 
ing our  left  was  killed  this  morning." 

The  brigadier's  headquarters  for  me  was  a 
place  of  ever-increasing  gloom.  It  had  gone  ill 
with  us,  and  every  mischance  was  echoed  back 
into  that  chateau,  as  into  a  whispering  gallery. 
One's   heart   grew  heavy   with   ever-increasing 

116 


THE    END    OF    A    BITTER    DAY 

news  of  disaster.  At  such  an  hour  the  imper- 
turbability of  the  brigadier  shadowed  forth  his 
invincible  faith.  He  smiled  as  I  clicked  my 
spurs  and  saluted  to  him  in  parting,  and  called 
out,  "Good  luck  to  you,  my  lad,"  as  I  left  the 
room. 

In  the  hallway  I  met  the  adjutant.  "I  envy 
your  old  boy  his  stoic  calm,"  I  declared. 

"The  same  here,"  said  the  adjutant.  "He  is 
certainly  a  priceless  example  to  the  rest  of  us 
chaps." 

Leaving  the  chateau  for  the  noise  without  was 
like  coming  from  the  deep  recesses  of  a  light- 
house into  the  open  of  an  angry  sea.  One's  first 
impulse  was  to  dart  back  again  into  the  cloistral 
seclusion  of  the  muffled  walls.  Overhead  there 
was  a  constant  whir  of  shells.  The  Germans 
had  got  by  aeroplane  the  exact  position  of  a 
heavy  battery  opposite,  and  around  the  gun- 
pits  there  was  an  endless  rain  of  bursting  shells. 

The  cordite  in  one  gun-pit  was  ignited  by  the 
detonation  of  an  enemy  shell.  In  a  moment  the 
whole  gun-pit  glowed  with  fire,  and  flames  forty 
feet  high  leaped  up  into  the  heavens.  "Gawd 
pity  the  poor  blighters  in  that  gun-pit!"  some 
one  exclaimed.  I  felt  a  pang  for  those  unfort- 
unate gunners  who  in  a  twinkling  would  be 
burned  to  a  crisp. 

117 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

It  was  pitch  dark  now,  but  the  landscape  was 
momentarily  alight  from  the  burning  cordite. 
In  the  glare  we  beheld  that  long,  thin  column 
still  moving  at  the  double  over  the  dip  of  the 
road.  In  the  lurid  light  the  crouching,  dart- 
ing figures  looked  more  than  ever  like  hunted 
beasts. 

That  morning  when  I  arrived  all  was  sunshine 
in  the  courtyard.  Through  the  wood  behind 
the  morning  light  was  stealing,  the  trees  were 
thrilling  to  the  voices  of  the  springtime.  As  we 
cantered  in  toward  the  stables  my  charger 
pricked  his  ears  to  the  voice  of  a  lark.  I  breathed 
deeply  of  the  scent  of  meadow  and  wild-wood, 
and  exulted  in  the  balm  of  the  morning  air. 

But  the  close  of  day  was  sad  indeed  in  the 
changes  that  had  fallen.  The  sweet  wild-wood 
was  inky  blackness;  a  tempest  swept  the  forest, 
through  which  the  louder  tempest  of  the  red 
artillery  shrieked  and  screamed. 

The  courtyard,  that  morning  so  spick  and  span 
and  clean,  was  now  littered  with  undreamed-of 
debris,  arms  and  equipment,  bully-beef  tins, 
ration  limbers,  cartridge-cases,  and  the  inevitable 
backwash  of  battle.  Here  and  there  great  shell- 
holes  gaped.  The  wounded  were  lying  along  the 
sides  of  the  buildings.     In  the  carriage-house  a 

first-aid  dressing-station  was  clogged  with  pa- 
ns 


THE    END    OF   A    BITTER    DAY 

tients.  Behind  the  carriage-house  lay  a  row  of 
pathetic  figures,  sewed  up  in  gray  blankets. 

I  found  my  groom  busily  engaged  in  holding 
my  charger  down  to  earth.  But  as  soon  as  he 
observed  my  approach,  that  quieted  him,  and  he 
opened  his  great  black  eyes  appealingly,  and 
rubbed  his  nose  against  me,  saying,  plainly,  "Do 
take  me  out  of  this  wretched  place!'* 

Once  in  the  saddle,  our  mounts  needed  no 
urging.  They  proceeded  to  put  the  greatest  pos- 
sible distance  between  them  and  the  dreadful 
chateau  where  they  had  suffered  nightmares  all 
day. 

The  roads  were  black  with  troops,  moving  up 
for  the  counter-attack.  Voices  which  I  had 
heard  the  night  before  in  the  Estaminet  hailed 
me  in  passing.  Later,  when  I  heard  that  this 
one  and  that  one  had  gone  west,  I  recalled  their 
last  salutation. 

Now  and  again  I  was  stopped  by  the  clogging 
of  traffic.  At  such  times  those  going  up  were 
keen  for  the  latest  rumors  from  the  ones  going 
down. 

"How  much  have  we  lost?"  "Are  we  hold- 
ing?" "Have  we  counter-attacked  yet?"  "Are 
there  many  before  us?"  "Will  our  crowd  be  the 
first  to  go  over  the  top?"  These  were  the  com- 
monest questions. 

119 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

I  paused  in  one  place  and  bent  in  my  saddle 
to  shake  the  hand  of  a  brother  officer  of  the  old 
Seventeenth  Nova  Scotia  Highlanders.  We  had 
been  together  at  the  very  start  and  felt  a  camarad- 
erie not  known  in  later  units  of  swifter-changing 
personnel. 

I  had  heard  of  dread  presentiments  in  France, 
but  never  did  I  see  a  clearer  case  of  presentiment 
than  that  of  my  brother  officer.  He  had  been 
on  the  line  for  nearly  two  years,  and  was  noted 
for  his  sang-froid.  But  that  night  his  hand 
trembled  and  his  face  was  ashen  pale.  He  tried 
to  smile  at  some  pleasantry  of  mine,  but  his 
countenance  was  overcast  by  a  cloud  of  sickening 
apprehension. 

"By-bye,  old  man.  My  time  has  come,"  he 
said,  huskily,  in  parting. 

"Nonsense!"  I  answered.  "They  haven't 
made  a  bullet  that  can  hit  you  yet." 

But  I  watched  him  move  off  as  one  whose 

doom  was  sealed.     Many  a  time  he  had  passed 

unscathed  where  it  had  seemed  that  scarce  a 

blade  of  grass  could  live.     I  thought  of  him  as 

one  who  lived  a  charmed  life.     For  such  a  one  to 

lose  his  heart  seemed  direst  tragedy.     Two  hours 

later,  in  leading  his  company  across  a  field,  his 

head  was  blown  off  his  body. 

On  leaving  my  pal  of  the  old  Seventeenth  I 

120 


THE    END    OF    A    BITTER    DAY 

felt  overwhelmed  by  a  wave  of  sadness  that  all 
day  had  been  rising  within  me.  This  was  the 
end  of  a  bitter,  bitter  day.  How  could  a  man 
keep  up  his  heart  through  weeks  and  months 
of  such  calamity? 

With  brooding  sadness  I  pulled  my  horse  up  at 
the  cross-roads  to  let  a  long  column  of  motor- 
lorries  pass.  While  I  paused  thus  in  moody 
silence  I  heard  from  up  the  road  the  sound  of 
singing.  A  small  squad  of  men  were  coming  out 
of  the  trenches,  and,  true  to  convention,  they 
were  singing  as  they  came. 

"Who  are  you?"  I  asked,  as  they  passed, 
thinking  that  they  were  some  cyclist  company  or 
fatigue  party  that  had  been  up  for  special  duty 
in  the  trenches. 

"We're  the  Princess  Pats,"  came  the  proud  re- 
ply, and  then  I  heard  them  launch  off  again  into 
another  song. 

I  saw  that  same  regiment,  then  nearly  a  thou- 
sand strong, .pass  down  the  road  toward  Ypres 
not  less  than  a  week  before.  I  remembered  how 
I  was  thrilled  as  I  thought  of  their  fighting 
prowess,  and  gazed  at  their  colonel,  appearing 
every  inch  a  soldier,  riding  his  charger  at  the 
head  of  his  men.  Behind  the  colonel  came  the 
pipes,  playing  "Blue  Bonnets  Over  the  Border." 

After  that  came  the  long  lines  of  companies  with 

121 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

their  full  complement  of  officers.  It  took  fifteen 
minutes  for  the  entire  regiment  to  pass  going  in, 
but  it  took  less  than  a  minute  for  that  remnant 
to  pass  going  out. 

All  that  was  left  of  them  went  by.  They  had 
been  cut  to  pieces  often  before,  but  this  time  they 
were  decimated.  The  gallant  colonel  had  been 
killed  while  leading  his  men  over  the  top.  All 
the  company  commanders  and  other  officers  had 
been  wounded  or  killed  and  only  one  boyish- 
faced  subaltern  remained,  who  now  marched  at 
the  head  of  the  column. 

Companies  that  went  in  over  two  hundred 
strong  were  now  returning  with  twenty-five. 
The  total  strength  of  the  regiment  as  it  passed 
was  less  than  seventy.  Those  seventy  had  suf- 
fered agonies  beyond  description.  They  had 
faced  the  springing  of  a  giant  mine.  They  had 
occupied  the  crater,  and  they  had  held  on  in  the 
face  of  shell-fire  so  terrible  that  it  had  robbed 
some  of  their  reason.  When  the  Germans  had 
offered  them  a  truce  and  asked  them  to  surrender 
the  crater,  they  had  yelled  back:  "Surrender  be 
damned!     Come  and  take  the  crater!" 

The  Huns  had  not  taken  the  crater.  Rein- 
forcements had  arrived  and  it  was  safe.  Now, 
the  remnant  of  the  regiment  that  saved  the  day 

were  marching  back  to  billets.    Their  uniforms 

122 


THE    END    OF    A    BITTER    DAY 

were  torn  and  caked  with  blood  and  filth.  Their 
faces  were  haggard  and  drawn.  The  regiment 
was  shattered,  but  its  spirit  was  unbroken. 
While  one  man  remained,  the  Princess  Pats  re- 
mained. With  that  same  blithesome  and  light- 
hearted  mien  the  handful  went  swinging  by, 
joining  with  lusty  voices  in  an  old  troop  song: 

"Steadily  and  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
Steadily  we'll  march  and  sing, 
Marching  along,  steady  and  strong, 
Like  the  boys  of  the  Old  Brigade." 

Down  the  road  I  followed  them  into  the  dark- 
ness until  the  sound  of  the  singing  grew  faint  and 
died  away.  Then,  with  light  heart  restored,  I, 
too,  struck  up  a  song  and  cantered  down  the 
road.  For  me  the  flashing  glimpse  of  that  brave 
remnant  had  swept  all  clouds  away. 

I  had  seen  a  star  at  the  end  of  a  bitter  day. 


VIII 

THE  FAITH   OF  A   SOLDIER 

/CHRISTMAS  EVE  of  1917  dawns  on  this 
^^  world  in  battle  array.  From  the  Vosges 
Mountains  to  the  sea  there  runs  a  crimson  line, 
dyed  ever  deeper  by  the  blood  of  men. 

In  the  golden  haze  of  childhood  we  heard  that 
priceless  story  of  the  hills  of  Bethlehem,  of  that 
first  Christmas  Eve  when  the  shepherds  were 
watching  their  flocks  by  night.  Every  child's 
imagination  has  leaped  to  the  story.  The 
sophistry  of  later  years  cannot  efface  the  en- 
raptured charm  that  lingers  with  its  memory. 
We  read  again  of  that  night  when  the  angels 
sang,  "Glory  to  God  in  the  highest,  and  on  earth 
peace  and  good  will  toward  men,"  and  we  find 
the  story  still  instinct  with  sweetness  and  with 
fragrance. 

But  we  turn  away  from  the  hills  of  Bethlehem 
to  the  hills  of  France  and  Flanders,  and  the 
angels'  song  is  drowned  by  the  voice  of  the  roar- 
ing guns.     The  Star  of  Bethlehem  goes  down  in 

124 


THE    FAITH    OF   A    SOLDIER 

the  smoke  and  reek  of  battle,  and  the  stars  that 
the  shepherds  watched  are  lost  in  lurid  flashes 
and  in  shooting  rockets  through  the  night. 

Twenty  centuries  have  passed  since  the  angels 
sang  of  the  Prince  of  Peace,  and  now  to-night 
"the  earth  is  full  of  tumult  and  the  sky  is  dark 
with  wrath."  Was  the  angels'  song  in  vain,  and 
was  our  faith  made  "of  such  stuff  as  dreams  are 
made"? 

Our  sybaritic  friend  who  still  finds  ease  in  an 
austere  age  announces  in  blase  tones  of  arm- 
chair omniscience,  "Oh  yes,  all  faith  is  gone." 
But  we  shall  not  turn  to  the  habitues  of  soft  and 
easy  places  for  counsel  in  deepest  things.  Such 
subjects  are  beyond  their  ken  and  beyond  their 
depth,  for  little  shallops  keep  close  to  the  shore. 

In  all  ages  the  voice  of  faith  comes  to  us  from 
deep  waters.  "Out  of  the  depths  have  I  cried 
unto  Thee!"  was  the  exclamation  of  David  long 
ago. 

Before  the  battle  of  Mars  ton  Moor  Oliver 
Cromwell  could  not  be  found.  Finally  a  little 
maid  said,  "Please,  I  think  the  mayster's  up 
here,"  and  she  led  the  way  to  a  garret  room. 
There,  peeping  through  a  slit  in  the  panel  of  the 
door,  they  beheld  the  great  Oliver  on  his  knees, 
the  tears  streaming  down  his  face,  praying  and 
sobbing  to  God  that  he  might  not  have  to  fight 

125 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

next  day.  But  he  did  fight  next  day,  and  on  the 
historic  field  of  Marston  Moor  his  Ironsides  swept 
Rupert's  cavalry  before  them. 

Stonewall  Jackson,  the  Southern  hero,  whom 
Lord  Roberts  called  the  greatest  soldier  of  his- 
tory, often  prayed  in  his  tent  all  through  the 
night.  America  would  do  well  in  her  present 
hour  of  crisis  to  recall  the  life  of  this,  her  most 
shining  military  leader,  and  to  analyze  and  strive 
to  emulate  those  qualities  that  made  his  strength. 

The  greatest  faith  in  the  world  at  this  Christ- 
mastide  is  found  in  the  front-line  trenches.  In 
peaceful  and  sheltered  places  such  as  New  York 
and  Boston  one  encounters  much  of  pessimism. 
This  glad  season  for  many  at  home  is  full  of  sad- 
ness. But  not  so  with  the  boys  at  the  front. 
The  purest  optimism  is  found  on  the  firing-line, 
and  optimism  is  the  highest  proof  of  faith. 

The  faith  of  a  soldier  expresses  itself  in  action, 
not  in  talk.  In  the  army  wordy  and  windy  dis- 
cussions on  religion  are  tabooed.  Unctuous 
phrases  and  sounding  creeds  have  been  swept 
away.  Much  is  gone,  but  much  remains.  In- 
deed, the  fundamental  thing  remains — that  is, 
an  unquestioning  faith  that  God  still  holds 
dominion  and  that  the  future  is  safe  in  His 
keeping. 

At  home,  with  abandoned  tones  and  distressed 

126 


THE    FAITH    OF    A    SOLDIER 

faces,  we  hear  folks  say,  "May  God  help  us!" 
Their  every  attitude  is  that  of  complete  despair. 
The  way  they  say  "God  help  us"  is  just  the 
same  as  though  they  said  "All  hope  is  gone." 

The  pessimistic  ones  at  home  think  that  all  is 
awry,  that  God  has  forsaken  us,  and  that  naught 
but  evil  remains  in  the  world.  These  Ichabods 
should  take  a  trip  to  the  front-line  trenches  and 
I  am  sure  they  would  return  in  high  spirits, 
with  faith  rekindled,  and  with  conviction  that  in 
spite  of  this  awful  war  there  is  far  more  good 
abroad  to-day  than  there  was  in  the  peaceful 
and  prosperous  time  just  before  the  fateful  sum- 
mer of  1914. 

General  Sherman  says  in  his  Personal  Mem- 
oirs: "I  never  saw  the  rear  of  an  army  but  I 
feared  that  some  calamity  had  happened  at  the 
front — the  apparent  confusion,  broken  wagons, 
crippled  horses,  men  lying  about  dead  and 
manned,  parties  hastening  to  and  fro  in  seeming 
disorder,  and  a  general  appearance  of  something 
dreadful  about  to  ensue;  all  these  signs,  however, 
lessened  as  I  neared  the  front,  and  there  the  con- 
trast was  complete — perfect  order,  men  and 
horses  full  of  confidence,  and  it  was  not  unusual 
to  find  great  hilarity  and  cheering. .  .  .  Therefore, 
for  comfort  and  safety,  I  surely  would  rather  be 
at  the  front  than  the  rear  line  of  battle." 

127 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

There  is  too  much  of  this  trembling  and  un- 
certain "rear-line-of -battle  view"  with  us  at 
home.  But  however  fearful  and  cowardly  we 
may  feel  behind,  in  the  front  line  a  brave  and 
steadfast  faith  remains. 

From  my  personal  experience  there  is  far  less 
talk  of  religion  and  far  more  real  practice  of 
religion  in  the  trenches  than  there  is  in  the 
chinches.  Every  man  there  is  training  himself  to 
think  of  the  other  fellow;  their  voices  are  gruff, 
but  their  interminglings  are  sweetened  by  simple- 
hearted  kindness.  Selfishness  is  the  rule  at  home, 
but  there  it  is  selflessness. 

Privation  and  danger  and  a  hard  existence 
draw  men's  souls  together.  Those  who  say  that 
Jesus's  teaching  of  the  brotherhood  of  man  is  a 
failure  have  never  learned  of  the  brotherhood  of 
a  regiment  in  peril.  The  officer's  only  thought  in 
times  of  crisis  is  for  the  safety  of  his  men,  and  the 
men  themselves  are  likewise  thinking  only  of 
him  or  of  the  safety  of  their  pals. 

"Don't  moind  me,  mate;  toike  'Arry  'ome," 
said  a  sorely  wounded  cockney  who  preferred  to 
die  on  the  field  in  order  that  the  stretcher-bearer 
might  give  his  pal  a  chance. 

Against  the  barbarity  and  hatred  of  this  war 
I  will  put  the  every-day  life  of  the  front  line, 
abounding  as  it  does  with  a  wealth  of  love  and 

1£8 


THE    FAITH    OP   A    SOLDIER 

charity  and  simple  kindness.  Strange  as  it  may 
seem,  much  of  pure  sweetness  still  reigns  in  the 
trenches.  Much  of  the  spirit  of  the  Galilean 
Master  is  found  in  the  dugout  and  on  the  fire- 
step. 

In  the  summer  of  1914  I  did  not  think  that  a 
world  so  utterly  selfless  as  the  front  line  could 
exist.  "Over  there"  it  seems  as  though  one 
would  do  anything  for  the  other  fellow.  They 
are  all  up  against  it,  and  it  is  the  unwritten  code 
that  a  spirit  of  helpfulness  must  be  shown  by  all. 

When  men  are  dwelling  daily  on  the  edge  of 
sudden  death  we  find  qualities  of  soul  within 
them  that  we  never  dreamed  of.  Most  men 
show  up  far  better  at  the  front  chan  they  do  at 
home. 

Boys  who  at  home  seemed  worthless  cads  at 
the  front  show  forth  the  most  godlike  bravery 
and  devotion.  None  would  reprehend  more  than 
they  such  allusions  to  their  service.  But  I  am 
sure  that  if  Jesus  Christ  came  back  to  the  world 
on  this  Christmas  Eve,  He  would  go  under  the 
star-shells  of  the  firing-line  to  find  those  who 
would  understand  Him  best. 

Prof.  Alexander  Belmain  Bruce,  the  famous 

Scotch  theologian,  a  few  years  ago  made  what 

was  then  considered  a  very  radical  statement; 

he  said  that  he  was  becoming  more  and  more  con- 
9  129 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

vinced  that  the  true  Church  was  not  in  the 
church,  but  outside  of  the  church,  separated 
from  it  not  by  immorality  and  godlessness,  but 
by  sincerity  and  deep  moral  earnestness. 

Our  Lord  would  find  the  society  of  many  of 
our  churches  to-day  quite  as  uncongenial  to 
Him  as  that  of  the  temple  which  He  cleaned  out 
with  a  scourge.  But  in  the  trenches  He  would 
come  unto  His  own  just  as  He  did  among  the 
harlots  and  publicans  and  sinners  long  ago. 
They  would  hail  Him,  not  only  as  their  Lord, 
but  as  their  own  Big  Brother  in  their  daily  round 
of  sacrifice. 

"  'E's  been  all  through  these  trenches,  and 
that's  why  'E  knows  us  and  we  knows  Tm,"  was 
the  way  a  Tommy  put  it,  in  claiming  Jesus  as  his 
ally.  Deep  down  in  the  heart  of  almost  every 
soldier  I  believe  that  there  is  a  faith  in  Jesus 
Christ  as  his  ally  and  as  his  Saviour.  They  who 
have  been  through  the  deep  waters  together  have 
a  comradeship  that  none  others  can  know.  In- 
stinctively the  soldier  turns  to  the  Master  of 
sacrifice  as  to  one  of  them. 

The  "Comrade  in  White"  is  not  some  dim 
distant  figure  for  the  men  on  the  battle-fields. 
In  war  the  veil  between  the  seen  and  the  unseen 
gets  thinner,  and  many  a  simple  Tommy  has 
pierced  that  veil  with  eyes  of  vision,  and  has 

130 


THE    FAITH   OF   A   SOLDIER 

come  to  know  that  face,  that  theologians  have 
seen  only  in  a  glass  darkly. 

All  have  heard  of  the  angel  of  Mons.  Critics 
at  home  discuss  the  appearance  and  all  such 
evidences  of  the  supernatural  in  cold  aloofness. 
I  heard  one  of  the  Old  Army  who  was  there 
speak  of  the  "Comrade  in  White"  who  appeared 
among  our  armies  in  the  bitterest  days  of  the 
retreat.  Every  accent  of  the  old  soldier  as  he 
referred  to  this  phenomenon  of  faith  was  that  of 
profoundest  reverence.  His  very  attitude  seemed 
to  imply,  "Take  off  thy  shoes  from  off  thy  feet, 
for  the  place  whereon  thou  standest  is  holy 
ground." 

A  friend  of  mine  who  was  standing  by  said, 
"Oh,  he's  just  a  superstitious  Catholic." 

"Well,"  I  answered,  "victorious  armies  have 
always  been  made  up  of  just  such  superstitious 
Catholics."  The  pikemen  of  Charles  Martel, 
the  followers  of  Jeanne  d'Arc,  the  horsemen  of 
Oliver  Cromwell,  the  mutiny  victors  of  Have- 
lock's  army,  all  these  were  allied  with  unseen 
legions.  In  front  of  their  captains  and  in 
front  of  their  generals  it  was  always  the  "  Com- 
rade in  White"  who  marched  at  the  head  of  the 
forces. 

Never  have  I  been  so  distressed  over  the  ap- 
parent strength  of  the  Germans  as  when  on  quiet 

131 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

spring  nights  I  liave  heard  them  singing  where 
their  trenches  were  near  to  ours: 

"Eih  Feste  Berg  1st  wiser  Goti"  which  in 
English  is,  "A  mighty  fortress  is  our  God." 

To  hear  those  strong  German  voices  rising  in 
the  night  and  swelling  in  that  great  chorus  of 
Luther's  battle-hymn,  sounding  with  a  note  of 
omnipotence,  created  in  my  heart  a  respect  for 
our  enemy's  might  and  power  which  I  had  never 
felt  before.  This  respect  was  only  dimmed  by 
later  intimate  revelations  of  their  hypocrisy. 

"Hark,  the  herald  angels  sing!"  will  be  sung 
at  many  a  point  on  the  firing-line  this  Christmas, 
and  to  the  Tommy  there  will  be  no  incongruity 
in  the  singing. 

While  a  lot  of  people  at  home  who  never  had 
any  faith  are  worrying  their  friends  on  how  to 
reconcile  faith  and  war,  the  soldier  out  of  the 
sacrifice  of  war  is  learning  a  faith  that  he  never 
knew  in  peace.  For  him  all  creeds  and  dogmas 
of  belief  and  unbelief  are  united  in  the  one 
eternal  principle  of  sacrifice. 

The  creed  of  a  true  soldier  is  one  with  the  creed 

of  the  Galilean.     The  famous  painting  called 

"The  Greater  Love,"  exhibited  at  the  Royal 

Academy  two  years  ago,  brings  out  this  fact. 

The  picture  shows  a  dead  soldier  fallen  at  the  foot 

of  the  cross  on  which  hangs  the  dead  figure  of  the 

132 


THE    FAITH    OF   A    SOLDIER 

Christ.  Underneath  is  the  inscription,  "What 
greater  thing  can  a  man  do  than  to  lay  down  his 
life  for  a  friend?" 

The  Christian  religion  is  built  up  on  the  fun- 
damental principle  of  the  cross.  This  is  also 
the  fundamental  principle  of  soldiering.  We 
hear  stories  of  the  officer  who  went  out  into 
No  Man's  Land  to  bring  in  a  wounded  Tommy 
and  died  in  the  effort;  of  the  young  lieutenant 
who,  seeing  a  bomb  with  the  fuse  set  dropped 
among  his  men,  fell  upon  it,  and  was  blown  to 
pieces,  thus  saving  the  lives  of  his  men;  of  the 
devoted  Tommy  who  intercepted  with  his  own 
body  the  steel  of  the  enemy's  bayonet  and  thus 
died  to  save  his  captain.  Every  day  on  the 
western  front  men  are  laying  down  their  lives 
for  their  friends,  and,  better  still,  there  are 
multitudes  of  those  whose  days  are  a  living  sac- 
rifice for  their  comrades.  Over  the  carcass- 
strewn  fields  of  France  we  read  the  faith  of  the 
soldier,  a  faith  inarticulate  in  life,  but  bearing 
witness  forever  in  death. 

While  the  soldiers  are  proving  their  faith  at 
the  front,  we  at  home  must  not  be  losing  ours. 
H.  G.  Wells,  writing  of  the  present  appalling  con- 
dition, says:  "Men  will  have  to  look  to  another 
Power.  They  might  very  well  look  to  Him  now 
— instead  of  looking  across  the  Atlantic.    They 

133 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

have  but  to  look  up  and  they  will  see  Him.  And 
until  they  do  look  up  and  see  Him  this  world  is 
no  better  than  a  rat-pit." 

The  greatest  and  most  dangerous  onslaught 
which  the  German  propaganda  is  making  against 
us  in  America  to-day  is  in  spreading  abroad  the 
idea  that  this  is  a  material  instead  of  a  spiritual 
struggle. 

If  America  became  imbued  with  the  idea  that 
this  were  merely  a  material  struggle,  she  would 
soon  lose  her  fighting  effectiveness.  Russia  has 
fallen  down  because  of  this.  Democracies  can- 
not long  be  kept  fighting  merely  for  temporal 
gain,  for  territorial  aggrandizement,  for  trade 
rights,  or  for  world  power.  A  war  fought  on 
such  baser  issues  would  soon  lose  its  appeal  to 
the  people.  But  a  spiritual  struggle,  rightly  ap- 
praised, will  command  the  deathless  devotion  of 
all  free  peoples.  The  British  Commonwealth 
and  the  French  Republic,  after  all  their  depletion 
of  treasure  and  manhood,  are  keener  to  wage  this 
war  to  an  end  than  they  were  in  1914,  because 
they  realize  more  profoundly  than  ever  that  this 
is  a  spiritual  struggle. 

The  Crusaders  of  France  and  England  traveled 
far  from  their  homes,  and  together  faced  danger, 
privation,  and  death.  Godfrey  de  Bouillon  and 
Richard  Cceur  de  Lion  were  alike  in  their  de- 

134 


THE    FAITH    OF   A    SOLDIER 

votion  to  the  cause  of  rescuing  the  Holy  Sepul- 
cher. 

So  to-day  England  and  France  are  once  more 
fighting  together,  the  manhood  of  both  nations 
are  united  as  the  Crusaders  of  old  in  a  spiritual 
struggle,  and  most  rightly  America  at  last  is  with 
them.  Above  all  things  it  behooves  America  at 
this  hour  to  teach  her  new  armies  the  deeper 
issues  of  this  struggle. 

Cromwell  said,  "The  secret  of  an  army's  fight- 
ing power  is  that  each  soldier  shall  know  that  for 
which  he  is  fighting."  Now  is  the  time  for  a 
Peter  the  Hermit  to  rise  up  in  America  and  to 
preach  to  our  New  Crusaders  at  Yaphank,  at 
Plattsburg,  and  at  all  camps  and  training-areas 
where  American  soldiers  are  being  prepared  for 
the  fray;  to  tell  them  that  this  is  a  spiritual  as 
well  as  a  national  war,  a  Second  Crusade,  that 
as  they  train  it  must  be  in  soul  as  well  as  in  body, 
for  it  is  the  soul  of  an  army  that  stands  against  all 
onslaughts  and  that  in  the  end  brings  victory. 
Some  one  has  written  from  Verdun,  "Only  he 
who  has  heaven  in  his  heart  can  withstand  this 
hell." 


IX 

MY  FINEST  MOMENT  IN  FRANCE 

"\/TY  finest  moment  in  France  was  the  first 
"*--*■  time  we  advanced  our  guns,  after  nearly 
two  years  of  waiting.  I  found  very  little  of  the 
gay  or  dashing  in  my  experience  of  modern  war- 
fare. It  was  rather  a  melancholy  round  of  dis- 
mal tasks,  calling  more  for  the  qualities  of  stolid- 
ity and  patience  than  for  those  of  valor  and  dash. 

"I  am  fed  up,'*  was  the  commonest  expression 
of  all  in  the  Tommy  vernacular.  One  of  the 
officer's  hardest  tasks  was  to  keep  the  spirits 
of  his  men  bucked  up. 

Suddenly  in  the  Somme  push  there  was  ex- 
perienced a  change  of  spirit  throughout  the  en- 
tire forces.  While  we  sat  still  in  one  place 
month  after  month  our  spirits  steadily  descended, 
but  when  we  were  once  advancing  we  were  un- 
dismayed by  cold,  or  hardship,  or  lack  of  food, 
or  ceaseless  toil,  or  added  dangers,  or  increasing 
death.  None  of  these  things  mattered  so  long 
as  we  were  going  ahead. 

13(3 


MY   FINEST   MOMENT   IN    FRANCE 

The  first  time  we  advanced  the  guns  of  our 
battery  in  the  Somme  last  fall  was  the  happiest 
moment  of  all  my  eighteen  months'  fighting  in 
France.  That  was  what  we  all  went  to  France 
for,  and  at  last,  after  ceaseless  and  apparently  in- 
effective sacrifice,  we  began  to  realize  the  end  of 
our  existence. 

One  bright  summer  morning  in  column  of 
route  our  battery  pulled  out  of  the  Ypres  salient 
and  marched  steadily  for  several  days  to  a  quiet 
place  in  the  back  country  well  behind  the  lines. 
Here  on  a  great  tract  of  wild  country,  reserved  as 
a  maneuvering  area,  we  practised  assiduously  for 
open  warfare. 

During  months  of  virtual  siege-work  much  of 
the  tactics  of  open  fighting  had  been  forgotten. 
On  this  maneuvering-area  we  were  trained  again 
at  battery  drill,  at  taking  up  new  positions,  at 
coming  into  action  at  the  gallop,  and  at  co- 
operating wi+h  cavalry. 

The  air  was  full  of  expectancy  during  these 
days.  Were  we  destined  for  an  advance  soon? 
Were  we  really  to  become  an  armee  de  chasse? 
Some  said  that  Fritz's  line  could  not  be  broken, 
that  the  war  would  end  where  we  were.  But 
evidently  the  Powers  that  Be  thought  otherwise 
or  they  would  not  thus  have  trained  us  in  open 
maneuvers. 

137 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

When  the  training  behind  the  lines  was  ended 
we  were  despatched  to  the  Somme,  and  as  we 
marched  thither  the  speculations  and  rumors 
increased. 

Once  in  action  in  our  new  position,  we  never 
really  settled  down  as  in  former  places.  Some- 
how there  was  a  feeling  that  our  gun-pits  here 
were  temporary  abiding-places.  At  night  we 
watched  the  star-shells  with  the  long  track  of 
light  that  traced  the  German  line.  "Behind  that 
line  is  where  our  guns  are  going  to  be,  me  boys," 
said  Hellfire  MacDougal,  sergeant  of  No.  1 
section,  to  his  gun  crew  on  the  first  night  in 
action.  "All  of  us  fellers  may  not  be  alive  to  git 
there,  but  this  old  howitzer  is  goin'  to  bark  right 
over  there  where  Fritz's  battalion  reserves  are 
guzzlin'  beer  and  pretzels  right  now." 

The  first  time  I  was  up  in  the  front  line  in  this 
sector  I  found  myself  regarding  the  opposite  para- 
pet with  strange  emotions.  In  the  Ypres  salient 
and  in  all  other  places  heretofore  the  opposite 
parapet  marked  a  forbidden  country,  an  in- 
scrutable land  which  we  might  not  explore.  As 
I  scanned  that  gray  line  of  sand-bags  that  marked 
out  the  Huns'  parapet  I  seemed  to  read,  "Thus 
far  shalt  thou  come,  and  no  farther."  But  in 
the  Somme  I  read  a  new  writing.  Every  time 
I  regarded  Fritz's  front  line  I  seemed  to  descry 

138 


MY   FINEST   MOMENT   IN   FRANCE 

the  name  of  a  popular  English  revue,  "Come 
Over  Here."  Always  beckoning  from  the  oppo- 
site parapet  by  day  and  beaconing  in  the  Verey 
lights  by  night  was  that  invitation,  "Come 
Over  Here!" 

After  nearly  two  weeks  of  waiting  I  was  back 
at  the  wagon-lines,  acting  as  battery  captain, 
my  job  being  to  move  ammunition  forward  to  the 
guns.  For  nearly  a  week  I  had  been  rushing  up 
the  supply,  until  we  had  several  thousand  rounds 
in  reserve,  and  still  the  guns  were  crying  for 
more.  "Next  strafe  we  'ave  'ell's  goin'  to  pop 
for  fair,"  exclaimed  the  sergeant-major  when  the 
brigade  headquarters  ordered  still  more  ammuni- 
tion to  be  delivered  in  our  already  deluged  pits. 

To  quote  from  the  sergeant-major,  "That 
night  the  lid  blew  off  o'  'ell!"  I  was  standing 
with  a  brother  officer  watching  the  peaceful 
twilight  when  an  aeroplane,  sailing  low,  dropped 
a  white  flare  across  the  heavens.  In  a  twinkling 
the  stillness  was  gone  and  a  thousand  guns  spoke 
with  one  voice.  Instinctively  every  one  looked 
at  his  neighbor  and  exclaimed,  "The  big  push 
has  begun !" 

All  night  long,  without  a  break,  the  bombard- 
ment continued.  About  four  in  the  morning, 
after  ceaseless  hours  of  hauling  ammunition,  I 
sank  down  in  my  tent  and  instantly  was  asleep, 

139 


THE   REAL   FRONT 

only  to  be  awakened  almost  immediately  by  a 
galloper  who  had  just  arrived  with  a  message 
from  the  guns.  The  message  read,  "Have  gun 
limbers  at  battery  position  to  advance  guns  at 
eight  a.m."  At  last  our  great  moment  had 
come.  Our  two  years  of  waiting  had  not  been 
in  vain. 

Two  hours  before  the  time  ordered  found  us  on 
the  road.  At  the  battery  position  there  was  a 
thrill  of  excitement,  not  common  among  old 
soldiers  in  France.  Hellfire  MacDougal,  un- 
kempt and  grimy  from  his  night  in  the  gun-pit, 
was  spitting  tobacco- juice  and  shouting  orders 
with  more  vehemence  than  ever.  To  see  him 
and  his  crew  jump  to  the  task  of  man-handling 
the  gun  out  of  the  gun-pit,  one  would  never  have 
thought  that  for  ten  hours  they  had  been  tending 
a  reeking,  roaring  howitzer. 

As  soon  as  all  the  guns  were  hooked  to  the 
limbers  the  order  was  given,  "The  battery  will 
advance  in  column  of  route  from  the  right.  W-a-lk 
— march."  How  many  times  had  I  given  that 
order  for  mere  maneuvers,  but  now  for  the  first 
time  it  sounded  with  a  thrill.  Gunners  and 
drivers  alike  were  dead  beat,  but  there  was  no 
lagging  back.  With  a  gusto  the  guns  and  limbers 
swept  over  the  crest  onto  the  road.  Once  on  the 
road,  the  whole  column  swept  forward  at  the  trot. 

140 


MY   FINEST   MOMENT   IN    FRANCE 

I  had  the  position  to  which  we  were  to  advance, 
two  thousand  yards  ahead,  marked  on  a  map. 
Already  the  major  had  gone  forward  to  lay  out 
the  lines  of  fire  from  the  new  position. 

On  each  side  of  the  road  new  regiments  were 
moving  up  for  the  counter-attack  which  the 
Germans  were  sure  to  launch  at  any  moment, 
while  like  a  great  torrent  guns  and  limbers  roared 
over  the  pave  in  the  center  of  the  road. 

As  we  drew  nearer  to  the  actual  scene  of 
fighting  we  began  to  encounter  the  backwash  of 
the  battle.  The  roads  were  gone  now,  the 
ground  was  pocked  with  shell-holes,  and  progress 
was  slow.  The  dead  and  dying  were  more  and 
more  in  evidence.  Across  an  open  field,  plowed 
up  with  shell-fire,  the  ground  was  literally  strewn 
with  corpses,  mute  witnesses  of  the  awful  price 
paid  for  that  scarred,  torn  field. 

The  Royal  Engineers,  wizards  of  the  modem 
battle-fields,  had  gone  before  us  in  a  twinkling 
bridging  trenches  and  ditches  and  breaking  down 
impassable  barriers.  Our  progress  was  not  easy, 
obstacles  were  on  every  hand,  guns  swamped, 
limbers  capsized,  pole-bars  broken,  horses  down, 
harness  snapped,  drivers  wounded — these  were 
incidents  of  our  advance.  Now  and  again  at 
some  unspeakable  misfortune  Hellfire  Mac- 
Dougal    treated    the   boys   to    selections   from 

141 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

that  trenchant  vocabulary  that  won  him  his 
name. 

Once  when  a  gun  had  been  deeply  mired  and 
its  obstinacy  was  just  beginning  to  work  on  our 
tempers  there  appeared  a  sight  to  cheer  the  most 
despondent.  Across  the  field  came  a  swarm  of 
Boche  prisoners,  a  gray-headed  Prussian  colonel 
marching  alone  at  the  head.  The  colonel  had 
lost  his  helmet,  he  was  unkempt  and  unshaven, 
and  his  clothes  were  covered  with  dirt,  but  his 
white  shoulder  badges  showed  intact.  His 
haughty  attitude  and  his  supercilious  counte- 
nance marked  him  as  one  of  our  captured  lions. 

One  leonine  prisoner  like  that  was  worth  more 
than  a  thousand  of  the  abject,  pot-bellied,  blink- 
ing, spectacled  Fritzes  that  followed  after.  That 
colonel  was  a  soldier  worthy  of  our  own  steel,  a 
true  prize  of  war.  As  he  marched  down  the  line 
with  his  head  in  the  air  he  paid  us  all  the  com- 
pliment of  saying,  "At  last  you've  taken  a  real 
prisoner." 

After  that  incident  of  the  colonel  I  saw  nothing 
of  our  advance  except  a  momentary  glimpse  of  a 
disabled  tank  high  on  the  side  of  a  trench.  The 
task  in  hand  was  so  all-absorbing  that  one  lost 
the  sense  of  other  things. 

But,  in  spite  of  all  obstacles,  we  arrived  at  the 
place    which    yesterday    Fritz    had    called    his 

142 


MY   FINEST   MOMENT   IN   FRANCE 

country.  Of  course  we  did  not  cheer,  the  job  in 
hand  was  too  grim  and  too  exacting  for  any  mere 
aside.  But  as  the  guns  were  swept  into  their 
new  positions  the  order  was  given,  "Halt!  Ac- 
tion front."  Every  man  heard  that  order  with  a 
deeper  joy  and  satisfaction  than  he  had  ever 
known  before  in  France. 

All  about  at  our  feet  lay  the  dead  and  the  dying, 
while  the  stretcher-bearers  passed  back  and 
forth  like  angels  of  mercy.  Out  of  the  opposite 
sky-line  came  a  constant  whir  of  shells,  and  an 
unbroken  hail  of  shrapnel  rained  about  us. 
Sometimes  near  and  sometimes,  happily,  far 
away  a  high  explosive-shell  sent  a  great  gey- 
ser of  earth  and  fire  and  steel  high  up  into  the 
air. 

"It's  pretty  thick,"  some  one  exclaimed. 

"Aw,  g'arn!  What  d'ye  expect  up  here?"  ex- 
postulated his  pal.  "It  may  be  hot,  but  we'll 
blame  soon  make  it  hotter  when  we're  passin' 
the  fast  freight  back  to  Fritz!" 

Every  man  had  long  since  earned  his  rest. 
All  night  at  the  guns,  with  its  awful  nerve-racking 
shock,  and  now  all  day  under  shell-fire,  these  men 
were  ceaselessly  toiling,  stripped  to  the  waist, 
digging  for  dear  life  to  make  an  overhead  pro- 
tection for  themselves  and  the  guns  from  the 
showers   of   shrapnel.    Human   endurance   was 

143 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

long  since  exhausted.  But  the  only  taps  that 
sounded  there  for  rest  were  the  taps  of  death. 
But  what  mattered  exhaustion,  or  pain,  or 
wounds,  or  death?  We  had  justified  the  end  of 
our  soldier's  existence,  and  such  a  consciousness 
brought  a  satisfaction  that  outweighed  all  else. 


X 


"the  day  of  reckoning" 


IT  all  began  on  board  the  "Colonist  Special  for 
■■■  Berlin."  Our  troop-train  had  stopped  at  a 
French-Canadian  town  famous  for  its  ardent 
intoxicant  known  as  whishy  blanc. 

The  troop-train  of  the  New  Brunswick  con- 
tingent lay  on  an  adjacent  track.  They  had 
already  been  waiting  there  for  hours.  Despite 
the  pickets,  many  New  Brunswick  incorrigibles 
had  broken  loose  and  had  succeeded  in  kindling 
their  spirits  with  the  French-Canadian  fire-water. 

As  the  Nova-Scotian  train  came  to  a  stop, 
Arch  Roary  MacCabe  swung  himself  onto  the 
platform  of  our  car,  which  bore  the  inscription, 
"Colonist  Special  for  Berlin." 

Arch  Roary  was  crazy  drunk.  The  whishy 
blanc  had  gone  to  his  head  and  had  transformed 
him  into  a  maniac.  His  eyes  were  those  of  a  wild 
beast  seeking  his  prey,  and  an  oozy  slime  covered 
his  mouth.  With  the  bound  of  a  panther  he 
leaped  under  the  near  platform  of  our  car. 

10  145 


THE   REAL   FRONT 

A  little  cockney  sergeant,  in  blissful  ignorance 
of  the  lumber- jack's  fury,  rushed  toward  him, 
exclaiming,  pompously,  "  'Ere,  'ere,  git  hout  of 
this,  Oi  soiy." 

A  mist  came  over  Arch  Roary 's  eyes  as  he 
reached  out  and  sent  the  plucky  little  cockney 
flying  headlong  off  the  platform.  With  a  yell 
that  ended  in  a  scream  he  announced,  "I'm  Arch 
Roary  MacCabe,  boss  of  the  Miramichi  drive, 
and  I  can  clean  up  every  dirty  little  herring- 
choker  of  a  Nova-Scotian  from  here  to  the 
Banks  of  Newfoundland." 

The  Nova-Scotians  fought  stoutly,  but  the 
wild  Arch  Roary,  thanks  to  his  whisky  blanc, 
was  possessed  of  superhuman  strength  and  fierce- 
ness, and  he  felled  his  adversaries  on  the  right 
and  left,  and  crashed  gloriously  on,  until,  at  the 
far  end  of  the  car,  he  was  suddenly  confronted 
by  the  leonine  Red  Maclsaac. 

Kipling's  lines  about  when  two  strong  men  come 
face  to  face,  were  the  first  lines  that  came  to  me 
as  I  lay  sprawled  across  a  seat,  with  a  gash  in  my 
head,  and  dimly  regarded  our  Highland  cham- 
pion confronting  the  madman  of  Miramichi. 
They  were  a  rare  brace  of  fighters  as  they  stood 
confronting  each  other.  According  to  Bombard- 
ier Judkins's  description,  "Red  Maclsaac  was 
built  like  a  keg  of  nails,  and  was  just  as  hard; 

146 


"THE    DAY   OF   RECKONING" 

and  Arch  Roary  was  a  regular  wildcat,  quicker  'n 
greased  lightnin' !" 

Red  Maclsaac  had  been  trained  on  the  green 
pastures  of  the  sea.  Toiling  with  the  cod  hooks  and 
dories  had  given  him  his  broad  and  iron  back, 
while  ceaseless  brawls  ashore,  on  the  baiting- 
grounds  at  Canso,  had  taught  him  all  the  latest 
tricks  in  catch-as-catch-can  and  rough-and- 
tumble  fighting. 

From  the  Breton  Frenchmen,  who  brought 
their  barks  to  the  Canso  Straits  to  bait,  and  from 
the  fishermen  of  St.  Pierre  and  Miquelon  he  had 
learned  all  the  fancy  kicks  and  knock-out 
strokes,  from  the  deadly  "French  Lash"  to  the 
"Whalebone  Bend." 

Arch  Roary  was  equally  well  versed  in  fair 
means  and  foul.  The  habitant  voyageur  in  the 
shanties  and  along  the  river  had  introduced  him 
to  many  a  coup  de  grace  not  included  in  the 
Marquis  of  Queensberry's  category.  Handling 
logs  with  the  river  running  white  had  trained  in 
him  that  spirit  which  is  as  three  to  one  in  a 
fighter. 

None  of  us  in  the  car  could  think  of  interfering 
now  that  a  real  fight  was  on.  Many  of  us  had 
experienced  rough  handling  in  that  wild  charge 
down  the  aisle,  but  we  forgot  our  personal  grudge 
in  the  epic  struggle  before  us. 

147 


THE   REAL   FRONT 


<c 


'Ay,  mon,  but  yon's  a  pretty  pair  o'  lads 
whateffer,"  said  old  Quartermaster-sergeant 
MacQuirtle,  who  was  an  elder  in  the  kirk  at 
Judiac.  MacQuirtle  was  a  man  of  God,  but  he 
had  an  eye  for  fighting  beauty. 

No  ring-side  crowd  in  'Frisco  ever  got  more 
spectacular  demonstrations  of  the  cardinal  vir- 
tues of  the  fighting -man  than  were  vouchsafed  to 
us  in  that  brief  five  minutes. 

The  car,  recently  full  of  uproarious  troops,  was 
now  silent  as  a  church.  Men  crowded  onto  the 
seats  over  one  another's  shoulders  and  up  into 
the  sleeping-berths  above,  and  hung,  fixed  and 
breathless,  on  the  fighting  men. 

At  the  beginning  Quartermaster-sergeant 
MacQuirtle  had  rubbed  his  hands  in  holy  glee, 
exclaiming:  "It's  a  f eight!  It's  a  f eight!"  But 
such  epic  struggles  were  beyond  words,  and  every 
one  bent  toward  the  common  focus,  every  sense 
lost  in  the  oneness  of  the  fight. 

At  a  climactic  moment  when  every  one's  in- 
terest was  intensest  on  the  battle  the  door  of  the 
car  was  flung  open,  and  into  the  fighting  area 
strode  Col.  Donald  MacKenzie  MacTavish. 
Arch  Roary,  who  was  back-stepping  from  a 
slaughter-house  blow  of  Maclsaac's,  trampled  on 
the  colonel's  toe  and  the  wild  Red  came  charging 
on.     No  one  in  the  crowd  seemed  to  notice  the 

148 


"THE    DAY    OF    RECKONING" 

intrusion  of  the  colonel  until,  like  the  crack  of 
doom,  his  awful  voice  rang  out. 

Every  man  in  that  car,  barring  Arch  Roary, 
knew  the  hell  that  lay  behind  that  voice.  In  a 
twinkling  the  compact  and  annular  ring-side 
mass  had  dissolved;  like  a  herd  of  sheep  they 
went  helter-skelter;  the  invincible  Maclsaac  took 
on  the  aspect  of  a  wilted  sunflower,  and  a  mute, 
imperious  finger  pointing  toward  the  door  was 
enough  to  inspire  the  erstwhile  incorrigible 
MacCabe  to  retire  as  precipitately  as  he  had 
lately  advanced. 

"Ay,  but  he's  a  fearsome  mon  whateffer,  is  the 
auld  colonel,"  observed  Quartermaster-sergeant 
MacQuirtle.  No  man  or  beast  could  brook  the 
wrath  of  MacTavish.  When  his  eye  flashed  and 
passion  quivered  in  his  voice  the  colonel  be- 
longed to  elemental  things,  a  spirit  brother  to 
cyclones  and  volcanoes;  mere  men  and  human 
fighters  were  swept  away  before  him. 

Arch  Roary,  retiring  to  his  own  contingent, 
told  in  tones  of  loudest  braggadocio  how  that  he 
had  gone  through  the  herring-chokers'  train  like 
a  ramrod  through  a  gun-barrel. 

"None  of  'em's  any  good.  They're  a  lousy 
bunch  of  slab-sided  codfish.  I  et  a  hul  earful 
of  'em  up  alive,"  declared  Arch  Roary. 

For  the  glory  of  their  homeland,  the  New- 

149 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

Brunswickers  were  only  too  glad  to  overlook  the 
cruel  way  in  which  Red  Maclsaac  had  left  his 
trade-mark  on  the  features  of  Arch  Roary. 
They  accepted  his  story  without  question,  and 
when  they  met  their  rivals  in  the  days  to  come 
they  taunted  them  on  how  one  'lumber-jack  was 
good  for  a  car-load  of  slab-sided  dorymen. 

Old  Quartermaster-sergeant  MacQuirtle  was  a 
man  of  experience  and  ripe  wisdom.  But  it  was 
more  than  his  Judiac  blood  could  stand  when  a 
blatant  son  of  the  Miramichi  taunted  him  thus 
at  the  army  canteen.  MacQuirtle  threw  all  his 
peace  precepts  to  the  winds,  and  the  saddened 
friends  of  the  blatant  one  carried  his  prostrate 
form  to  the  hospital  on  the  canteen  door. 

Colonel  MacTavish,  if  he  had  only  known, 
would  certainly  never  have  interrupted  that 
sweet  fight  on  the  Colonist  Special  for  Berlin. 
What  endless  tribulations  the  colonel  created  for 
himself  by  causing  the  fight  of  two  individuals 
to  expand  itself  into  the  fight  of  two  batteries! 

A  week  after  he  arrived  at  Valcartier  Camp 
the  defaulters'  parade  brought  up  before  the 
colonel  no  less  than  fifteen  men,  the  full  comple- 
ment of  a  leave  party  that  had  visited  the  city 
of  Quebec  the  day  before. 

"Left  turn!  'At  off!  'Shun!"  Sergeant-major 
Fury  brought  the  culprits  up  with  a  jerk,  caustic 

150 


"THE   DAY   OF   RECKONING" 

fire  and  sarcasm  leaping  alike  from  his  bristly 
mustache  and  his  trembling  swagger  stick. 

"Oh,  you  miserable  dogs!  Oh,  you  miser- 
able dogs!"  The  lion-taming  sergeant-major 
seemed  to  be  saying  this  accustomed  blessing  as 
he  regarded  his  lambs  with  splenetic  hatred. 

The  crime  for  which  the  unfortunate  fifteen 
were  yanked  up  before  the  colonel  was  that  they 
had  used  their  brass  belt  buckles  for  black- 
jacks on  the  Dufferin  Terrace  the  afternoon 
before.  When  the  beautiful  ladies  were  there 
promenading  with  their  Pomeranian  poodles 
these  shameless  sons  of  Judiac,  lusting  for  re- 
venge, had  encountered  the  New  Brunswick  leave 
party,  and  had  straightway  set  to  work  to  qualify 
them  one  and  all  for  an  extended  sick  leave. 

"The  shame  o'  it  were,  sir,  that  it  'appened 
roight  where  the  loidies  toikes  afternoon  tea. 
They  'ad  'is  Majesty's  uniform  on,  sir,  when  they 
gives  this  shameful  spectacle.  The  scenes  was 
'orrid,  the  language  was  'orrible,  and  the  loidies 
screamed  something  orful."  One  may  infer  from 
Sergeant-major  Fury's  description  that  the 
Willie-boys-afternoon-tea  atmosphere  was  rudely 
transformed. 

Moldy  Macintosh,  Thirsty  Thorn,  and  all  the 
rest  of  B  Battery  leave  party  received  the  sen- 
tence, "Ten  days  C.  B.  and  get  your  hair  cut." 

151 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

C.  B.  means  confined  to  barracks,  and  became  a 
more  and  more  frequent  term  in  B  Battery  as 
time  went  by  and  the  animosity  increased  for 
D  Battery,  the  New  Brunswick  unit. 

By  the  time  that  these  two  units  had  arrived 
in  France  they  had  worked  up  a  rivalry  that  was 
famous  throughout  the  division. 

This  rivalry  was  not  without  its  blessings.  If 
I  caught  Driver  Red  Maclsaac  with  his  harness 
in  bad  condition  I  had  but  to  mention  the  fact 
that  Arch  Roary's  harness  looked  so  much  bet- 
ter, and  Maclsaac's  cheeks  would  become  as  red 
as  his  hair,  and  he  would  set  to  cleaning  leather 
and  burnishing  metal  with  a  rage  that  lasted  for 
days.  When  Thirsty  Thorn  and  Moldy  Mac- 
intosh, numbers  two  and  three  on  No.  1  gun 
crew,  were  slow  in  standing  gun  drill  I  had  but  to 
bellow  at  them,  "I  believe  that  the  New-Bruns- 
wickers  would  complete  registering  before  you 
chaps  got  unlimbered."  This  taunt  never  failed 
to  put  the  lightnings  in  their  heels. 

Our  battery  was  in  action  during  our  first  two 
weeks  in  France  in  a  place  known  as  Hilquit 
Rise.  On  the  left  of  our  zone  of  fire  was  a  certain 
likely  observation  post  in  the  form  of  the  Metron 
church  steeple.  We  tried  to  get  this  target  dur- 
ing all  our  time  on  that  position,  but  without 
success. 

152 


"THE    DAY   OF   RECKONING" 

We  were  relieved  on  that  position  by  D  Bat- 
tery, and  on  their  first  day  in  action,  by  a  lucky 
shot,  our  rivals  potted  the  target,  which  we  and 
our  predecessors  for  months  had  been  seeking 
for  in  vain. 

A  few  evenings  later  the  majors  of  the  two 
respective  batteries  encountered  each  other  in  a 
town  behind  the  lines  and  had  no  end  of  chafing 
and  horse-play  with  each  other  regarding  the 
lucky  shot. 

"All,  well,"  exclaimed  the  battery  commander 
of  D  Battery  to  our  major  in  parting,  "luck  was 
with  us  at  the  start,  and  so  of  course  we'll  have 
to  give  you  chaps  a  handicap." 

It  certainly  looked  as  though  luck  were  with 
our  rivals  for  good.  As  the  months  went  by  in 
France  they  were  forever  outstripping  our  fel- 
lows, both  in  collective  and  individual  contests. 
The  spirit  of  emulation  which  at  first  was  felt 
only  among  the  rank  and  file  gradually  began  to 
pass  upward  to  the  officers. 

Larry  Douglas  was  the  first  of  our  upper  crust 
to  really  have  just  cause  for  spite  against  them. 
Larry  was  the  junior  subaltern  of  the  battery, 
a  curly-haired,  rosy -cheeked  boy  who  had  a  way 
with  him  with  the  ladies.  Larry  was  a  great 
heart-smasher  and  possessed  a  record  through- 
out the  entire  army. 

153 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

Such  things  not  being  in  my  line,  I  am  unable 
to  explain  Larry's  forte.  But  I  was  told  by  Bob 
Hanson  that  Larry  possessed  rare  powers  of  con- 
quest with  the  daughters  of  Eve. 

Bob  said  that  Larry  did  not  care  for  anything 
that  looked  easy,  but  when  a  regular  queen  came 
along  he  always  set  out  to  attach  her  to  his 
triumphal  chariot. 

In  Armentieres,  one  of  our  gay  towns  behind 
the  lines,  there  dwelt  a  certain  beautiful  maiden 
named  Camille  who  was  known  as  the  belle  of 
the  western  front.  I  have  been  all  up  and  down 
the  line  myself  in  the  course  of  my  two  years 
in  France,  and  even  though  I  do  pose  as  a  savant, 
I  will  aver  unhesitatingly  that  Camille  of  Ar- 
mentieres was  the  most  charming  young  lady  that 
I  had  seen  in  that  land  where  they  are  very  fair 
and  very  plenty. 

Of  course  Larry  Douglas  baited  his  hook  and 
set  out  sweethearting  with  Camille  on  every  pos- 
sible occasion.  Our  guns  were  in  action  for  a 
long  time  behind  the  trenches  near  that  favored 
town,  and  Larry  had  ample  opportunity  to  cult- 
ivate what  they  called  in  Armentieres  his  affaire 
de  camr. 

On  his  day  off  Larry  would  come  down  from 
the  observation  post  covered  with  mud,  his  face 
dirty  and  unshaven,  his  clothes  ragged,  unkempt, 

154, 


"THE    DAY    OF   RECKONING" 

and  lousy.  He  looked  like  a  perfect  burlesque 
of  a  hobo.  But  when  he  had  bathed  in  the  warm 
tub  which  Hurtle,  his  servant,  had  prepared  for 
him,  and  was  washed  and  clothed  anew,  one  did 
not  wonder  that  little  Camille's  eyes  sparkled  at 
the  sight  of  him.  With  his  tight-fitting  tunic, 
salmon-pink  riding-breeches,  polished  leather, 
shining  brass,  and  rosy  cheeks,  he  was  a  comely 
officer  withal  for  any  girl  to  look  upon. 

We  all  entered  heart  and  soul  into  Larry  s  love 
affair.  It  appealed  to  our  sporting  instincts,  and 
our  vanity  as  a  battery  was  tickled  to  think  that 
our  junior  subaltern,  under  the  nose  of  the  whole 
army,  could  walk  off  with  the  belle  of  the  western 
front.     This  was  due  cause  for  pride  for  any  unit. 

But  Larry,  the  invincible  heart-smasher,  was 
destined  to  meet  his  Waterloo,  and  of  all  things 
at  the  hands  of  a  New-B  runs  wicker.  It  hap- 
pened one  evening  in  the  Estaminet  de  Com- 
merce, in  the  Grand  Palace  d'Armentieres.  The 
Estaminet  de  Commerce  was  the  social  center  of 
the  town.  There  officers  were  wont  to  fore- 
gather for  their  evening  glass  of  wine  and  a  bask- 
ing in  the  sunshine  of  Camille's  smile. 

Several  of  the  boys  in  our  especial  set  were 
seated  at  a  table  over  a  bottle  of  Heidsiec  while 
we  admiringly  watched  the  gallant  Larry  in  ac- 
tion on  the  battle-field  of  the  heart. 

155 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

Bob  Hanson  told  me  that  he  knew  Larry  was 
winning  out,  because  he  could  see  the  love  light 
flashing  back  in  Camille's  starry  eyes. 

"I'm  not  so  sure  about  that,"  I  answered, 
"but  I'll  take  your  word  for  it,  Bob.  Affairs 
like  this  are  not  in  my  line,  you  know." 

"Well,  don't  you  worry,  my  spring  chicken," 
warned  Bob  in  tones  that  I  have  since  remem- 
bered. "These  affairs  will  be  in  your  line  some 
time,  when  you'll  see  one  of  these  big-eyed  baby 
dolls,  you'll  know,  all  right,  when  the  love  light's 
in  her  eyes.  I  tell  you  that's  a  sure  sign.  Larry, 
here,  has  cut  'em  all  out;  he's  got  it  over  Camille 
like  a  tent.  No  one  else  would  have  a  look-in 
now." 

"Well,"  said  MacGivern,  "I'm  glad  for  the 
sake  of  B  Battery  that  we're  winning  something, 
anyway." 

Just  then  Lieut.  Ready  McNutt  of  D  Battery 
entered.  Ready  had  begun  his  career  as  lady- 
killer  in  the  pie  socials  in  the  north  woods  of 
New  Brunswick.  As  such  he  knew  neither  mod- 
esty nor  shame.  He  strode  into  the  estaminet 
with  the  assurance  on  his  face  which  said,  "I  have 
seen  Camille,  and  she  is  mine." 

If  Bob  Hanson  thought  that  Larry  had  it  over 
Camille  like  a  tent,  I  had  my  doubts.  Unversed 
as  I  was  in  the  ways  of  the  fair  sex,  I  had  at  least 

156 


"THE    DAY    OF   RECKONING" 

learned  that  women,  war,  and  weather  are  three 
uncertainties  of  life.  Therefore,  I  held  my  judg- 
ment in  abeyance  regarding  all  such  matters. 
But  now  I  knew  that  Larry  was  destined  to 
defeat. 

Ready  McNutt  bore  on  his  arm  an  officer's 
helmet  of  the  Prussian  Guard.  The  patent 
leather  and  the  brass  spike  were  shining,  while 
the  great  gilt  eagles  were  splashed  across  it 
with  dazzling  effect.  Camille's  eyes  began  to 
flash  at  that  most  prized  helmet,  and  whose  eyes 
would  not  flash  at  such  a  trophy? 

Ready  McNutt  had  taken  an  undue  advantage, 
but  all  is  fair  in  love  and  war,  and,  as  he  leaned 
against  the  bar,  Larry  was  gently  pushed  aside 
by  unseen  forces,  and  New  Brunswick's  Cupid 
had  become  the  king  of  hearts.  The  defeated 
youth  still  hung  about,  for  the  sake  of  keeping 
up  appearances.  But  we  on  the  side  lines  all 
knew  that  in  the  affair  of  the  heart  he  had  taken 
the  count,  and  the  prize  of  the  victor  had  passed 
to  another. 

Ready  McNutt  hung  on  to  his  helmet  as  long 
as  his  iron  will  would  permit.  But  even  his  iron 
will  at  last  went  down  before  the  belle  of  the 
western  front.  Ready  had  intended  to  send  that 
helmet  home;  it  was  indeed  a  wondrous  souvenir. 
But  the  minute  Camille's  eyes  fell  upon  it  it 

157 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

was  hers,  and  Ready's  heart,  of  course,  was 
thrown  in  to  boot  along  with  the  helmet. 

After  an  exasperatingly  long  delay,  and  a 
battle  fought  by  eyes  and  looks,  the  coveted 
helmet  changed  owners,  and  the  transfer  was 
sealed  by  a  kiss. 

This  was  too  much  for  Larry  Douglas.  The 
vanquished  subaltern  stamped  out  of  the  room, 
and  we  of  B  Battery  left  our  bottle  of  Heidsiec 
to  join  our  fallen  champion. 

I  will  not  repeat  what  was  said  by  the  young 
bloods  of  B  Battery  that  night  regarding  their 
brethren  of  D  Battery.  To  be  defeated  by  our 
rivals  in  fistic  combat  and  in  gunnery  was  shame 
enough,  but  to  go  down  before  them  in  love  was 
ignominy  indeed.  From  the  officers'  mess  down, 
our  entire  personnel  was  out  for  vengeance. 
We  bided  our  day  and  nursed  our  grievance, 
while  every  time  we  met  D  Battery  they  rubbed 
it  in. 

"Our  day  is  coming,"  said  the  major,  grimly, 
and  every  man  in  our  battery  devotedly  echoed 
that  prayer.     Red  Maclsaac  echoed  it  twice. 

On  several  occasions  when  Red  Maclsaac  en- 
countered Arch  Roary  in  the  same  drinking- 
place  Red  was  seized  with  violent  fits  and  had  to 
leave  the  place  hurriedly.  I  was  riding  with 
Red  along  the  main  road  on  one  occasion  when  we 

158 


"THE    DAY   OF    RECKONING" 

met  Arch  Roary  acting  as  lead  driver  on  an  am- 
munition limber  coming  toward  us.  Red  turned 
sharply  off  on  a  side-road,  though  he  had  no 
business  in  that  direction,  and  his  face  took  on 
such  a  purple  hue  that  I  feared  lest  he  should  die 
from  apoplexy. 

So  we  nursed  our  wrath  and  bided  our  day.  At 
last  our  day  of  vengeance  came.  It  was  the 
horse-show  of  the  brigade  held  at  Ouderdom. 

We  had  turned  out  an  ammunition  limber 
with  six  horses  that  could  not  be  beaten  in  the 
whole  second  army.  The  lead  team  especially 
were  our  pride.  They  were  a  pair  of  sixteen- 
and-a-half -hands  imperial  roans  named  Emperor 
Nero  and  Queen  Alexandra. 

Bob  Hanson,  captain  of  our  wagon-lines,  said 
that  he  never  saw  such  a  pair  of  artillery  draft- 
horses  in  his  life  as  the  two  roans,  and  Bob  was 
some  judge  of  horseflesh. 

The  first  event  that  day  was  the  jumping  con- 
test for  officers'  chargers.  Ready  McNutt  and 
Larry  Douglas  had  a  tie  at  five  and  a  half  feet. 
They  tried  five  feet  eight,  but  both  chargers 
balked  at  that,  until  the  event  was  declared  a 
draw.  If  Larry's  charger  had  known  how  much 
spite  his  master  was  putting  into  that  contest  he 
would  have  taken  anything  up  to  seven  feet  just 
for  the  sake  of  the  honor  of  the  battery. 

159 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

There  were  several  other  events,  such  as  the 
signaler  race,  a  tent-pegging  contest,  a  mounted 
wrestling  contest,  and  a  dispatch-riders'  race. 
But  the  great  event  of  the  whole  horse-show 
was  the  exhibition  of  artillery  draft-horses. 

As  our  prize  outfit  left  the  wagon-lines  every 
man  already  saw  the  blue  ribbon  flying  proudly 
from  the  browbands  of  Emperor  Nero  and 
Queen  Alexandra. 

"Mon,  mon,  did  ye  effer  see  such  horses?" 
exclaimed  Quartermaster-sergeant  MacQuirtle  as 
Tom  Dupont  and  the  other  drivers  put  their 
teams  through  a  few  maneuvers  in  an  adjacent 
field. 

"Go  it,  boys!  Me  heart's  wi'  ye,"  exclaimed 
the  wild  little  Scotchman,  jumping  on  to  a  fence 
and  waving  his  cap  in  great  glee. 

"Soak  it  to  'em,  Tom,"  yelled  Thirsty  Thorn 
and  Moldy  Macintosh  together,  as  they  stood, 
arm  in  arm,  regarding  the  team  that  was  "sure 
to  wipe  the  earth  up  with  every  plug  of  a  horse 
that  D  Battery  could  get  together." 

Coming  on  to  the  parade-field,  where  the 
horse-show  was  held,  Emperor  Nero  and  his  con- 
sort seemed  to  feel  a  sudden  touch  of  imperial 
pride;  lifting  their  knees  high,  and  throwing  their 
heels  like  old  Roman  chargers,  they  dashed  before 
the  eyes  of  many  of  the  big  ones  of  our  army. 

1G0 


"THE    DAY   OF   RECKONING" 

Gray  and  peppery,  General  Fitzclarence,  him- 
self an  old-time  gunner,  adjusted  his  monocle 
and,  watching  that  omnipotent  Jehu,  Driver 
Dupont,  and  his  fiery  steeds,  he  exclaimed: 
"Excellent,  excellent!  Finest  thing  I've  seen 
to-day.  Yes,  by  Gad,  that  minds  me  of  me 
own  days  in  the  old  horse  gunners." 

Our  major,  who  was  standing  by,  and  over- 
heard the  general,  winked  at  Bob. 

"Yes,"  exclaimed  Bob,  indulging  in  his  old 
expression,  "we've  got  it  over  'em  all  like  a 
tent." 

Just  before  the  chariot-race  of  the  day  was  to 
come  off,  when  all  our  hearts  were  beating  high, 
Emperor  Nero,  who  had  been  disporting  himself 
like  a  royal  gentleman,  was  suddenly  smitten 
with  one  of  his  frequent  attacks  of  local  insanity. 

Emperor  Nero,  like  many  another  perfect  horse, 
had  one  imperfection.  He  had  knocked  his 
poll  on  a  troop-train,  and  at  times  he  was  quite 
crazy.  Now,  of  all  times,  he  had  to  come  on 
with  one  of  these  attacks.  Lashing  out  right 
and  left  with  his  heels,  he  refused  to  stand  for 
the  judges  who  wished  to  look  him  over. 

This  was  too  much  for  the  temper  of  Driver 
Dupont,  who  was  formerly  one  of  Roosevelt's 
Rough  Riders.  Dupont,  according  to  his  own 
words,  was  foaled  in  the  saddle,  and  he  wasn't 

II  161 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

reckoning  on  taking  any  back  talk  from  any 
army  horse  that  ever  stepped. 

Enraged  beyond  control  by  Emperor  Nero's 
arrogance,  Driver  Dupont  buried  the  rowels  of 
his  spurs  in  the  flanks  of  that  fiery  beast,  saying 
between  clenched  teeth,  "I'll  show  ye  who's  mas- 
ter on  board  here,"  at  which  our  blue-ribbon  ex- 
hibition disappeared  in  a  flying  cloud. 

Tom  was  master,  all  right.  But  it  was  late  in 
the  afternoon  and  the  horse-show  was  over  when 
we  saw  him  again,  and  what  Thirsty  Thorn  ir- 
reverently referred  to  as  "the  plugs  of  B  Bat- 
tery" pranced  home  with  the  blue  ribbon. 

After  that  last  humiliation  the  major  said, 
"What's  the  use  of  trying?" 

Two  years  passed  over  us  in  France.  We  be- 
came seasoned  veterans.  There  were  two  things 
above  all  else  that  our  battery  learned  during  those 
two  years — they  learned  to  hate  the  Germans, 
and  they  learned  a  real  rivalry  for  D  Battery. 

When  the  rival  units  were  in  action  side  by  side 
in  the  Ypres  salient,  it  was  a  standing  joke  in  the 
front  line  as  to  which  battery  was  answering 
first  to  S  O  S  calls.  Hellfire  MacDougal,  who 
claimed  to  have  the  world's  championship  for 
quick  fire  in  response  to  S  O  S  signals,  claimed 
that  he  had  beaten  the  New  Brunswick  gun 
crews  by  three-fifths  of  a  second. 

162 


"THE    DAY    OF    RECKONING" 

Ready  McNutt  was  just  as  sure  that  his  boys 
from  the  Miramichi  had  two-fifths  of  a  second 
on  Hellfire's  prize  crew. 

When  an  S  O  S  rocket  went  up  in  the  night, 
there  were  two  things  that  put  the  lightning 
into  B  and  D  Batteries — first,  of  course,  the  cry 
for  help  from  the  infantry,  and  second,  the 
rivalry  which  they  had  for  each  other. 

Out  of  a  sound  sleep,  clad  only  in  their  B.  V. 
D.'s  and  boots,  the  crews  would  vomit  forth  from 
their  dugouts  into  their  gun-pits,  and  have  their 
field-pieces  roaring  almost  ere  one  had  realized 
what  had  happened. 

The  general  often  used  to  remark  at  the  train- 
ing-area on  the  clockwork  efficiency  of  the  two 
units,  and  at  their  whirlwind  precision  at  bat- 
tery maneuvers.  To  see  either  B  or  D  Battery 
coming  into  action  at  the  gallop  was  a  sight  for 
the  gods. 

General  Fitzclarence  complimented  both  units 
personally  on  their  wonderful  showing.  In  an 
army  order  he  attributed  their  efficiency  to  the 
splendid  leadership  of  their  officers.  But  the 
men  and  officers  themselves  knew  better.  They 
traced  their  efficiency  to  the  rivalry  which  began 
in  that  unfinished  fight  on  board  the  Colonist 
Special  for  Berlin. 

B  Battery  first  came  into  action  on  the  Somme, 

163 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

in  a  position  known  as  "Sausage  Valley."  Be- 
yond Sausage  Valley  and  farther  forward  was 
Marsh  Valley.  One  day,  in  company  with  Larry 
Douglas  and  Hellfire  MacDougal,  I  set  out  for  a 
reconnaissance  of  a  forward  gun  position,  on  the 
advanced  crest  of  Marsh  Valley.  There  on  a 
deserted  hillside  we  already  found  a  battery  in 
action.  We  thought  that  we  ourselves  had 
shown  enterprise  worthy  of  mention  in  army  or- 
ders in  thus  stealing  a  march  on  all  the  others 
and  preparing  to  move  ahead  on  our  own.  But 
here  already,  with  their  guns  dug  in  and  their 
gun-pits  complete,  was  another  battery. 

We  were  contemplating  this  amazing  spectacle 
of  a'battery  already  in  action,  a  thousand  yards 
in  advance  of  all  the  other  guns  of  the  army, 
when  Ready  McNutt  suddenly  popped  his  head 
out  of  a  gun-pit  and  regarded  us  with  feigned 
alarm. 

"Hello!  What  are  you  herring-chokers  doing 
away  up  here,  all  alone?  Ain't  you  afraid  a  fire- 
cracker will  go  off?  You  better  beat  it  quick 
and  get  in  out  of  this  atmosphere,  or  you'll  get 
cold  feet.  Take  it  from  me,  you  want  to  get 
back  to  the  base  where  you  belong.  Cold  feet 
come  natural  to  fellers  from  'way  back  like  you 
chaps  of  B  Battery." 

Hellfire  MacDougal  then  let  out  all  the  stops 

J64 


"THE    DAY    OF    RECKONING" 

in  his  organ,  and  a  blue  haze  seemed  to  rise  while 
he  swore  and  cursed  for  the  glory  of  Nova  Scotia. 
He  forgot  that  he  was  a  sergeant,  he  forgot  that 
Ready  McNutt  was  an  officer.  All  he  remem- 
bered was  the  endless  humiliation  which  our 
rivalry  with  D  Battery  had  brought  us.  Hellfire 
earned  his  name  by  his  ability  in  brimstone  lan- 
guage. But  in  his  effort  that  afternoon  he  ex- 
celled all  former  outbursts,  and  even  the  cold- 
blooded Ready  McNutt  had  to  lower  his  head 
and  seek  shelter. 

We  advanced  our  guns  five  times  on  the 
Somme.  Each  time  the  task  seemed  more  ar- 
duous and  the  obstacles  in  our  way  more  in- 
superable. 

It  was  late  on  in  November  that  I  got  orders 
to  make  the  last  advance  with  our  guns.  The 
winter  rains  were  well  upon  us  and  the  chalky 
soil  of  the  Somme  was  transformed  into  a  sticky 
bog  through  which  the  movement  of  guns  and 
material  was  well-nigh  impossible. 

At  midnight  I  stood  upon  the  heights  of 
Pozieres  Cemetery  and  gazed  down  across  the 
blackness  to  where  a  scintillant  flare  marked  out 
the  line  of  the  trenches. 

We  had  been  moving  forward  ever  since  the 
dusk  of  early  nightfall.  In  seven  hours  of  con- 
tinuous striving  we  had  progressed  only  half  a 

1G5 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

mile,  and  we  had  still  another  mile  to  go.  We 
were  only  advancing  the  left  section,  for  which 
small  mercy  I  was  truly  thankful,  but  both  guns 
of  the  left  section  at  that  moment  were  up  to  the 
hips  in  mud,  and  the  prospects  of  getting  them  to 
move  again  seemed  to  grow  steadily  less. 

Hellfire  MacDougal  was  there,  as  usual,  stand- 
ing in  the  breach  with  all  that  the  human  power 
of  human  language  could  do  to  urge  those  howit- 
zers ahead.  At  such  moments  the  untiring  and 
perfervid  Hellfire  was  an  inspiration  to  any 
battery. 

"I  ain't  much  of  a  swearing  man  meself,"  said 
Quartermaster-sergeant  MacQuirtle.  "I'm  an 
elder  in  the  kirk  at  Judiac,  and  may  God  forgive 
me,  but  I  ken  the  sound  of  that  strong  language 
in  me  ain  heart  this  verra  minit." 

"Wish  I'd  some  of  the  guys  that  sit  around  in 
clubs  on  plush-bottom  chairs  and  smoke  Corona 
Coronas  and  wonder  why  they  don't  get  ahead 
faster  at  the  front  out  here  to-night,"  said  Larry 
Douglas.  "I'd  shove  their  wooden  heads  into 
that  puddin'  of  mud  under  No.  1  gun,  and  then 
they'd  blame  soon  know  why  we  don't  get 
along." 

Two  hours  before  the  dawn  found  us  still  more 
cheerless  and  still  more  hopeless,  but  struggling 
on  inch  by  inch  and  foot  by  foot.     Let  the  man 

166 


"THE    DAY    OF    RECKONING" 

who  would  learn  patience  join  us  in  such  a  task 
and,  with  the  boys  who  advance  the  guns,  he  will 
realize  Napoleon's  words,  "There  shall  be  no 
Alps." 

By  this  time  we  had  made  over  a  mile  advance, 
but  there  was  still  almost  a  half-mile  to  go,  and 
with  the  weariness  of  spirit  that  comes  at  such 
an  hour  we  knew  the  bitterness  of  those  who  still 
fight  on  when  hope  is  gone.  Every  man  was 
gritting  his  teeth  and  every  ounce  of  energy  was 
now  drawn  upon  our  nerve. 

Quartermaster-sergeant  MacQuirtle  had  grown 
querulous  and  had  ceased  to  be  responsible  for 
his  speech,  which  broke  out  violently  at  times. 

"Stuck  again,"  said  Driver  Dupont,  dismount- 
ing from  Emperor  Nero,  who  was  the  only  live 
horse  left  of  all  our  sixteen  teams. 

Red  Maclsaac  here  left  his  horse's  rein  in  the 
hand  of  a  gun  driver  and  darted  off  on  a  recon- 
naissance of  trails,  saying,  as  he  left,  "There 
must  be  some  harder  bottom  somewhere  abouts." 

We  were  all  engrossed  in  the  task  of  lifting  No. 
2  gun  out  of  a  slough  when  Red  Maclsaac  re- 
turned. He  was  running  back  in  such  frantic 
haste  that  I  rushed  out  to  meet  him  in  alarm, 
wondering  if  we  had  got  into  No  Man's  Land 
or  if  the  Germans  were  stealing  upon  us. 

With  that  look  which  we  see  only  on  the  faces 

167 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

of  those  who  bear  portentous  news,  Red  grasped 
my  shoulder  to  support  his  breathless  body  and, 
pointing  into  the  darkness,  he  exclaimed,  with 
tones  of  awe,  "D  Battery  is  stuck  in  the  mud, 
just  two  hundred  yards  to  our  left." 

Quartermaster-sergeant  MacQuirtle  heard  the 
intelligence  and  repeated  it  to  the  rest  of  the  boys. 
The  chaps  who  a  minute  before  were  dead  lt>eat 
and  lifeless  now  trembled  with  excitement. 

"Our  day  will  come,  our  day  will  come," 
panted  Red  Maclsaac,  repeating  the  supplication 
which  had  been  on  his  lips  for  over  two  years. 

"Get  mounted  the  drivers,"  was  the  order,  and 
drivers  never  mounted  with  more  snap  or  deter- 
mination. Our  day  of  reckoning  had  come.  It 
came  at  the  eleventh  hour,  when  our  bodies  were 
weak  and  our  horses  were  spent,  but  it  found 
our  spirits  unbroken.  There  was  now  only  one 
soul  in  all  that  crowd  of  men.  There  was  only 
one  will  and  one  purpose,  that  was  to  win,  at  last, 
a  fair  and  honest  victory  against  the  worthy 
rivals  that  had  seared  their  name  upon  our  soul. 

Driver  Dupont  whispered  something  in  the 
ears  of  his  imperial  roans.  They  say  the  word 
he  whispered  was,  "D  Battery."  Emperor  Nero 
snorted  at  the  word,  probably  in  a  shame  of 
memory  from  the  horse-show.  Whatever  the 
magic  word  was,  it  sent  the  great  roans  rearing 

168 


"THE    DAY    OF    RECKONING" 

and  plunging,  and  the  traces  strained  and  tight- 
ened through  every  tugging  team.  The  guns 
not  only  budged,  but  moved — nay,  more,  they 
marched,  and  within  an  hour  we  had  arrived  at 
our  goal. 

"Now  we'll  go  and  pull  D  Battery  out  of  the 
hole,"  exclaimed  Red  Maclsaac,  and  on  his  face 
there  shone  a  light  of  joy  that  I  had  never  seen 
before.  D  Battery  had  still  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
to  go  when  we  approached  them  with  our  prof- 
fered assistance.  They  were  in  no  mood  to  lose 
their  championship  in  sweetness  of  temper,  after 
all  that  night  of  superhuman  strivings.  But 
our  chaps  were  buoyant  with  the  flush  of  victory, 
and  they  spared  their  rivals  nothing  as  they 
rubbed  it  in. 

As  shrapnel  was  bursting  about,  it  was  im- 
perative that  D  Battery  should  be  got  ahead 
as  quickly  as  possible.  Red  Maclsaac  offered 
help  to  Arch  Roary  MacCabe,  but  his  good  of- 
fices were  greeted  by  a  flood  of  fierce  invective 
by  the  former  boss  of  the  Miramichi. 

Suddenly  a  cloud  of  shrapnel  burst  over  his 
head,  and  Arch  Roary  went  plunging  out  of  his 
saddle  with  a  curse.  A  number  of  his  pals 
rushed  to  the  prostrate  soldier.  Red  Maclsaac 
was  the  first  to  reach  him. 

"Let  me  take  him!    Let  me  take  him!"  he  im- 

169 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

plored  to  the  sergeant-major  who  would  thrust 
him  away.  Some  one  grabbed  his  arms,  but  he 
tore  himself  free,  exclaiming:  "He  was  me 
enemy,  I  tell  ye.  I  stood  up  to  him  when  he  was 
up,  and  now  I'll  stand  by  him  when  he's  down." 

The  others  gave  way  to  this  plea,  and  as 
tenderly  as  a  woman  Red  Maclsaac  raised  the 
wounded  man  and  placed  him  across  his  saddle; 
then  he  himself  mounted.  With  his  foe  of  that 
unfinished  fight  which  had  precipitated  an  end- 
less warfare  in  two  batteries,  he  set  off  at  an 
easy  canter  for  the  dressing-station.  B  Battery 
and  D  Battery  at  last  had  made  their  day  of 
reckoning. 


XI 

THROUGH  DEATH  VALLEY  BY  DAYLIGHT 

""VTEA,  though  I  walk  through  the  Valley  of 
■*■  the  Shadow  of  Death,  I  will  fear  no  evil." 
With  tones  that  rang  in  every  heart,  the  padre 
uttered  these  words  as  the  text  of  his  discourse 
on  that  Sunday  night  in  Albert. 

The  cellar  of  the  ruined  distillery  serving  as  a 
church  was  crowded.  A  row  of  gas-flares  shed 
a  fitful  light  across  the  faces  of  the  soldiers. 
Earnest,  sad,  and  reverent,  those  faces  seemed  to 
hang  upon  the  padre's  words.  Outside,  and  just 
beyond  them  in  the  night,  Death  Valley  lay, 
with  its  horror  of  an  awful  darkness.  A  far-off 
muffled  roar  told  that  the  Angels  of  Death  were 
abroad  in  the  valley.  There  was  not  a  man  in 
that  crowd  that  had  not  felt  the  horror  of  Death 
Valley.  Many  of  their  pals  had  halted  there 
forever,  and  many  of  them  there  had  raced  against 
the  dawn  in  frantic  terror,  lest  daylight  should 
find  them  in  that  dread  passage  with  their  doom. 
In  a  world  of  peace,  that  distillery  cellar  with 

171 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

its  piled-up  vats  would  have  been  an  incongruous 
place  for  a  church.  But  soldiers,  dwelling  on  the 
fringes  of  eternity,  require  no  ecclesiastical  de- 
vices to  produce  a  worshipful  spirit. 

In  all  that  throng  of  serious  men,  one  face  was 
forever  arresting  my  gaze;  that  was  the  face  of 
Cyril  Hallam.  He  sat  where  the  flickering  light 
shone  full  upon  him,  his  pale  features  accentuated 
by  the  white  flare,  his  blue  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
preacher  with  an  infinite  yearning.  As  I  gazed 
upon  him  I  saw  the  evidence  of  one  who  had  a 
warfare  in  his  heart.  Happy  is  the  soldier  who 
fights  only  with  the  Hun.  But  Cyril  Hallam 
knew  a  battle-field  within  more  poignant  than 
the  battle-field  without. 

I  found  myself  that  night  gazing  upon  him 
again  and  again  as  he  sat  beneath  that  flaring 
light.  Over  his  face  there  passed  the  ever-chang- 
ing pictures  of  his  soul.  At  one  time  his  sad 
eyes  were  radiant,  as  though  that  melancholy 
cellar  held  for  him  apocalyptic  visions. 

Gilhooly  of  the  Inneskillen  Dragoons  and  Cor- 
poral Tompkins  of  the  Northumberland  Hussars 
were  breathing  heavily  and  blankly  gazing  at  the 
padre.  What  vast  gulfs  separated  those  stolid 
fighting-men  from  the  fair  angel  spirit  that  shone 
in  Cyril  Hallam's  face! 

As  the  padre  came  to  the  end  of  his  sermon  he 

172 


THROUGH  DEATH  VALLEY  BY  DAYLIGHT 

told  how  that  in  Death  Valley  God  would  give  us 
all  stout  hearts  and  make  us  brave  in  every 
crisis.  At  these  words  a  shadow  flitted  over 
Hallam's  face.  It  was  not  so  easy  for  him  to 
accept  that  which  the  crowd  had  taken  for 
granted. 

After  two  years  of  soldiering  Cyril  Hallam  re- 
mained an  individualist.  As  such  he  was  a 
phenomenon,  for  the  army  tends  to  weld  all  men 
together.  It  creates  a  spirit  of  collectivism; 
with  this  spirit  men,  thinking  only  of  the  regi- 
ment, forget  themselves,  and  go  over  the  top 
fearlessly. 

Cyril  Hallam,  in  spite  of  all  his  soldiering, 
could  not  cease  to  be  an  individualist,  and  this 
individualism  caused  him  pain,  of  which  his 
brother  officers  never  dreamed.  With  the  others 
there  was  no  question.  If  an  awful  crisis  came, 
of  course  they  would  all  stand  up  to  it  like  men 
or  they  would  all  go  down  together.  "The 
strength  of  the  wolf  is  the  pack,  and  the  strength 
of  the  pack  is  the  wolf."  This  was  the  undoubt- 
ing  philosophy  of  Larry  Douglas  and  Tommy 
McGivern,  the  other  two  subalterns  of  Cyril's 
battery. 

But  Cyril  could  never  see  it  that  way.    He 

knew  not  the  strength  that  others  gained  from 

the  crowd  spirit.    For  him  as  an  individualist  all 

173 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

the  old  doubts  and  fears  remained.  If  a  great 
testing-time  should  come,  he  knew  that  he 
would  have  to  meet  it  alone. 

Despite  his  long  time  in  France,  Cyril  had 
never  yet  encountered  a  real  crisis.  His  going 
and  coming  had  always  been  well  ordered. 
Some  time,  he  knew  that  he  must  meet  an  awful 
testing,  and  in  it  he  feared  that  he  would  fail. 
He  used  to  say  to  himself:  "Some  time  I  know  I 
will  be  really  up  against  it,  and  I'll  prove  a  coward. 
It's  this  fear  of  fear  that  keeps  me  trembling." 

Cyril  Hallam  was  of  a  shy  and  reticent  dis- 
position, but  to  Bob  Hanson,  as  to  a  kindred 
spirit,  he  had  told  much  of  his  life  and  inner 
strivings.  He  was  born  a  weak  and  timid  child, 
with  a  cringing  from  the  boisterousness  of  other 
children.  His  early  school-days  for  him  had  been 
a  hell,  of  which  only  his  mother  knew.  He  grew 
up  with  a  tender  and  esthetic  nature  and  a 
shrinking  from  the  hard  ways  of  the  world.  He 
had  been  trained  as  an  artist,  and  just  as  his 
career  was  opening  up  with  soft  sunshine  and 
happiness  the  war  broke  out. 

With  that  rare  spirit  which  can  so  easily  give 
itself  for  an  ideal,  Cvril  Hallam  had  enlisted  at 
the  first  call.  The  saddest  tragedy  of  all  had 
been  the  parting  from  his  mother,  who  could  not 
see  eye  to  eye  with  her  darling  boy.     Every  one 

174 


THROUGH  DEATH  VALLEY  BY  DAYLIGHT 

had  told  him  that  he  was  not  cut  out  for  a  soldier. 
But  he  was  fixed  in  his  own  mind,  and  nothing 
could  turn  him  from  his  purpose. 

At  the  training-camp  he  endured  agonies  for 
months,  only  to  be  told  that  because  of  physical 
deficiencies  he  could  never  go  to  France.  But 
he  stuck  with  grim  determination  until,  with  the 
lowering  of  the  physical  standard  and  the  im- 
proving of  his  own  physique,  at  last  he  was  en- 
raptured by  the  sight  of  his  name  on  a  draft  list 
for  the  front. 

He  never  could  adjust  himself  to  the  rough  and 
impersonal  life  of  the  army.  His  finer  feelings 
were  always  being  shocked,  and  he  was  misun- 
derstood by  his  brother  officers. 

But  to  the  few  who  saw  within  his  heart,  he 
was  an  angel  in  khaki.  To  chat  with  him  for  a 
few  moments  was  to  catch  again  a  flashing 
glimpse  of  that  world  of  idealism  and  of  love, 
so  easily  forgotten  by  most  of  us  in  the  baser 
world  of  war. 

At  the  close  of  divine  worship  Cyril  Hallam 
greeted  his  old  friend  Bob  Hanson  with  a  glad 
smile.  "Do  come  around  to  the  wagon-lines  with 
me,  old  man,"  he  pleaded.  "We've  got  the 
couchiest  billet  in  Albert,  and  I'm  dying  to  talk 
with  some  one  who  can  speak  of  other  things 
besides  this  next  infernal  push." 

175 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

"Sure,"  answered  Bob.  "Our  new  billet  is 
rotten  enough.  I'll  come  around  and  look  at 
yours,  and  if  it  takes  my  eye  I'll  get  the  town 
major  to  kick  you  out  and  make  a  worthy  place 
for  me." 

Cyril  could  not  get  away  from  the  subject  of 
the  padre's  sermon.  As  soon  as  they  were 
seated  on  a  couple  of  ammunition-boxes,  before 
a  brazier  fire  in  the  billet,  he  plunged  into  a  dis- 
cussion of  the  thoughts  which  it  had  prompted. 

"I  wish  that  I  wasn't  such  a  natural-born 
coward,"  he  exclaimed,  deprecatingly. 

"Nonsense!"  answered  Bob.  "You're  a  bit 
more  modest  than  the  rest  of  us,  that's  all." 

"No,"  said  Cyril;  "you  chaps  are  able  to  buck 
up  against  whatever  happens.  But  I  am  always 
haunted  by  this  fear  of  failure.  It  used  to  be 
bad  enough  at  Ypres.  When  we  left  there  I 
thought  that  we  might  find  a  better  place  for  a 
spell,  but  this  is  a  thousand  times  worse.  With 
this  ceaseless  run  of  battles,  I  am  sure  that  some- 
thing awful  is  impending  for  me." 

'That's  all  in  your  mind,"  advised  Bob. 
"You're  allowing  your  imagination  to  run  away 
with  you.  Take  a  tip  from  me  and  forget  to- 
morrow. A  soldier's  got  no  business  with  any- 
thing but  to-day." 

'Yes,  that's  all  right  for  you,"  Cyril  answered, 

176 


THROUGH  DEATH  VALLEY  BY  DAYLIGHT 

"but  a  to-morrow  wherein  I  should  fail  is  some- 
thing I  cannot  help  fearing.  The  other  day  I 
stood  on  the  heights  by  Pozieres  Cemetery  and 
gazed  down  into  Death  Valley.  An  ammunition- 
limber  was  moving  up  toward  the  guns.  The 
batteries  on  Beaumont  Hummel  opened  up  upon 
them,  and  there  before  my  eyes,  scarcely  half  a 
mile  away,  I  saw  that  gallant  bunch  of  men  and 
horses  blown  to  pieces. 

"The  thing  has  haunted  me  ever  since.  Every 
time  I  go  into  the  valley  at  night  with  ammuni- 
tion for  the  guns,  I  am  afraid  that  I  may  get 
stuck  by  some  accident,  and  that  the  dawn  may 
still  find  me  in  that  awful  place.  I  tell  you,  old 
man,  Death  Valley  troubles  me  by  night  and  day. 
It's  nothing  tangible  I  fear,  but  just  the  awful 
thought  that  I  may  prove  a  coward  there." 

Just  then  an  orderly  entered  and,  saluting,  an- 
nounced, "A  message  from  the  forward  guns, 


sir. 


Hallam's  face  grew  pale  and  his  hand  trembled 
as  he  reached  for  the  fateful  message.  His  bat- 
tery had  two  guns,  situated  in  an  advanced  and 
perilous  position,  at  the  far  end  of  Death  Valley, 
just  fifty  yards  behind  the  front-line  trench. 
The  guns  had  been  moved  to  this  far-forward 
position  preliminary  to  an  attack  that  had  been 
imminent  for  several  days. 

12  177 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

The  message  which  Hallam  read  was  in  the 
form  of  an  order  from  the  brigade  headquarters 
to  the  battery  commander,  stating  that  the 
bombardment  preliminary  to  the  "next  push" 
would  begin  on  the  following  evening  at  seven- 
thirty. 

The  brigade  order  read:  "Your  battery  must 
have  at  the  forward  guns  at  least  one  thousand 
rounds  H.  E.  The  battery  commander  will  see 
that  there  is  no  shortage  from  the  specified 
figure.  Ammunition  states  must  be  in  by  noon 
to-morrow."  Below  the  brigade  order  the  bat- 
tery commander  had  written:  "To  O.  C.  Wagon- 
lines:  For  your  information  and  necessary  ac- 
tion. Get  limbers  through  at  all  costs  before 
noon  to-morrow." 

Hallam  knew,  by  memorandum  appended,  that 
another  four  hundred  rounds  would  be  necessary 
to  give  the  required  total,  to  be  shown  on  am- 
munition state  of  the  following  noon. 

On  account  of  Death  Valley  being  under  ob- 
servation by  the  German  batteries  by  day,  the 
hauling  of  ammunition  was  done  at  night.  This 
was  a  long  and  perilous  task,  on  account  of  the 
state  of  the  roads  from  shell-holes  and  mud,  the 
wet  season  being  well  advanced. 

As  all   his  horses  were  dead  beat  from  an 

arduous  two  weeks  of  advancing  guns  and  ma- 
ws 


THROUGH  DEATH  VALLEY  BY  DAYLIGHT 

terial  it  was  impossible  to  take  the  road  for 
several  hours.  An  orderly  summoned  the  ser- 
geant-major, and  as  he  entered  Bob  Hanson  de- 
parted. To  the  sergeant-major  Hallam  gave  his 
orders:  "You  will  have  reveille  sounded  at  two- 
thirty  a.m.  Take  eight  limbers,  eight  horses  to  a 
limber.  Have  teams  hooked  in  and  ready  to 
move  off  at  three-fifteen.  Send  an  orderly  im- 
mediately to  the  ammunition-dump,  and  tell 
them  to  be  ready  to  supply  us  with  four  hun- 
dred rounds  H.  E.  at  three- thirty." 

"Very  good,"  said  the  sergeant-major,  and 
soon  his  clinking  spurs  were  singing  over  the 
cobblestones  in  the  courtyard  and  his  strident 
voice  was  fixing  orders  in  the  drowsy  heads  of 
trumpeter,  cook,  and  night  sentry. 

It  was  now  close  to  midnight  and  the  chill 
November  air  brought  grim  reminders  of  winter 
campaigning.  Hallam  was  sleeping  on  the  stone 
floor  of  a  shattered  mansion,  on  the  fringes  of 
the  town  of  Albert.  The  wind  came  in  gusts 
through  a  great  shell-hole  in  the  wall,  and  from 
a  rent  in  the  roof  the  stars  appeared. 

But  no  matter  how  inhospitable  these  quarters 
might  seem,  his  sleeping-bag  was  his  happy 
home.  He  buckled  the  straps  tight  to  keep  out 
the  wind,  pulled  down  his  Balaklava  helmet  over 
his  head,  and  in  a  twinkling  was  asleep. 

179 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

In  his  sleep,  Cyril  Hallam  was  troubled  by 
wild  nightmare.  Death  Valley  haunted  him  in 
his  dreams.  He  seemed  to  be  forever  racing 
against  the  dawn  on  that  dread  passage.  Then 
there  came  a  break  in  his  dream  and  he  beheld 
Death  Valley  in  the  sunshine.  Up  and  down  the 
valley  the  green  grass  was  growing,  and  the 
flowers  were  blooming  with  sweet  perfume; 
daisies,  anemones,  and  buttercups  were  there, 
and  high  in  heaven  he  heard  the  voice  of  a  lark 
singing  of  the  springtime.  Everything  was  se- 
rene with  peace  and  beauty.  Surely  this  was 
not  Death  Valley!  While  he  doubted  the  place, 
he  saw  beside  a  warbling  brook  a  little  wooden 
cross.  He  bent  over  to  read,  and  there  beheld 
his  own  name,  painted  in  black  letters  on  that 
scant  memorial,  "Lieut.  Cyril  Hallam,  dead  on 
the  Field  of  Honor." 

From  the  shock  of  this  apparition  he  awoke 
with  a  start,  to  hear  from  the  courtyard  the  soar- 
ing voice  of  the  trumpeter  sounding  reveille.  "I 
bought  a  horse — I  bought  a  cow — I  bought  a 
d-o-n-k-e-y !"  The  silver  voice  sounded  above 
the  soft  night  winds,  and  Cyril  Hallam  heard  it  as 
one  who  hears  the  note  of  doom.  For  over  two 
years,  each  day  for  him  had  begun  with  that  self- 
same call.  But  this  morning  he  listened  to  it 
with  a  cold  and  shivering  dread. 

180 


THROUGH  DEATH  VALLEY  BY  DAYLIGHT 

For  a  few  moments  Hallam  lay  in  his  sleeping- 
bag  and  thought  of  the  many  cheerless  dawns  to 
which  he  had  arisen  since  joining  the  army.  He 
thought  of  that  dark  September  morning,  long 
ago,  when  the  alarm-clock  went  off  in  his  little 
room  at  home  and  summoned  him  to  the  sad 
parting  from  his  mother.  That  for  him  had  been 
the  bitterest  moment  of  all  his  life,  and  this 
morning  he  likened  unto  it.  But  the  same  stern 
voice  of  duty  whispered  in  his  ear,  and  suddenly 
the  door  burst  open  with  a  rush  of  cold  wind  and 
his  servant  announced,  brusquely,  "Your  break- 
fast is  ready,  sir." 

It  was  a  bitter-cold  morning,  with  a  high  wind 
that  set  one  shivering;  but  a  warm  breakfast 
offset  the  rigors  of  the  November  wind.  His 
servant  then  helped  him  adjust  revolver  and 
trench -lamp  to  his  Sam  Browne  belt,  and 
with  gas-helmet  case  slung  over  his  shoulder, 
and  wearing  a  steel  helmet,  he  sallied  forth 
fully  accoutered  for  the  exigencies  of  the 
front. 

The  horse-lines  were  all  astir;  drivers  were  put- 
ting the  finishing  touches  to  their  harness,  while 
others  already  had  their  teams  hooked  into  the 
limbers. 

"It's  a  nice  dark  morning  for  your  run  through 
to  the  guns,  sir,"  announced  the  sergeant-major, 

181 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

cheerily,  as  Hallam  flashed  his  light  upon  a  busy 
group  which  he  was  superintending. 

"Yes,  the  morning's  all  right,"  he  answered, 
"but  there's  very  little  darkness  to  spare,  that's 
the  trouble." 

"Oh,  I  guess  you'll  make  it,  all  right,"  the 
sergeant-major  laughed.  "If  you  don't,  it  '11  be 
a  nice  little  bit  of  running  the  gantlet,  that's 
all." 

Hallam  did  not  laugh;  he  was  tremulous  as  an 
aspen,  with  a  sickening  feeling  gripping  at  his 
throat.  He  persuaded  himself  that  he  did  not 
flinch  before  the  prospect  of  death,  but  the  fear 
that  shook  his  frame  and  made  him  sick  was  the 
possibility  that  he  might  prove  a  coward. 
"This  is  the  morning  when  I  shall  fail,"  he  said 
to  himself,  as  the  last  vestige  of  his  confidence 
seemed  to  flee  from  him. 

Out  of  the  darkness  his  groom  trotted  up  with 
his  horses.  That  morning  Hallam  was  riding 
his  first  charger,  White  Stockings,  a  thoroughbred 
Irish  hunter,  which  had  been  commandeered  from 
a  gentleman's  riding-establishment  in  England. 
White  Stockings  was  reputed  one  of  the  finest 
chargers  in  the  division.  He  was  a  big  black 
horse,  with  white  stockings  about  his  four  hoofs, 
whence  his  name. 

At  3.15  sharp  all  the  teams  were  hooked  in  and 

182 


THROUGH  DEATH  VALLEY  BY  DAYLIGHT 

the  last  N.  C.  O.  had  reported  his  subsection 
ready.  A  few  crisp  orders  and  the  column  was 
silently  filing  off  into  the  thoroughfares  of  Albert. 
At  3.30  they  trotted  into  the  ammunition-dump 
at  the  other  end  of  the  town,  and,  under  the 
direction  of  an  officer  there,  began  to  load  the 
limbers  with  the  necessary  4.5  H.  E.  shells  and 
cartridges.  By  four  o'clock  the  column  was  on 
the  road  again  with  the  complete  allotment  of 
ammunition. 

Through  the  deserted  and  ghost-like  town  of 
Albert  they  passed  again,  by  the  ruined  church 
where,  from  the  high  steeple,  a  figure  of  the 
Virgin  and  the  Child  hangs  in  midair,  suspended 
above  the  street.  The  natives  of  the  Somme 
area  say  that  when  that  statue  falls  peace  will 
come.  Mindful  of  that  rumor,  Bombardier  Judd 
cast  a  wistful  eye  on  the  precarious  and  eery 
figure,  announcing  to  the  nearest  driver:  "It's 
time  some  of  us  blokes  climbed  up  to  the  steeple 
and  gave  that  there  figger  a  high  dive.  I'd  like 
to  see  'er  hit  de  pavement  right  now.'* 

"Same  here!"  assented  the  driver.  "She  can 
come  down  right  now  and  close  the  show.  I've 
had  enough." 

Sergeant  Dugmore  here  trotted  up  to  the  head 
of  the  column,  inspecting  everything  with  a  crit- 
ical eye.     He  was  the  senior  sergeant  in  charge, 


183 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

and  to  him  Hallam  unfolded  the  schedule  which 
he  hoped  to  make  that  morning. 

The  main  road  was  comparatively  safe  at  all 
times,  but  beyond  the  village  of  Pozieres  they 
had  to  turn  off  into  Death  Valley.  There  by 
daylight  they  would  be  under  observation  of  the 
German  batteries.  It  was,  therefore,  imperative 
that  they  should  get  over  this  stretch  before  the 
dawn. 

"We  should  be  at  the  end  of  the  main  road, 
Sergeant,  by  five  o'clock.  Allowing  half  an  hour 
for  the  run  through  the  valley  to  the  guns,  and 
half  an  hour  for  unloading,  our  last  limber  should 
be  returning  by  six,  and  out  of  the  zone  of  ob- 
servation and  back  on  the  main  road  by  half 
past  six." 

"Oh,  we'll  make  it  all  right,  sir,"  said  Dug- 
more  in  confident  tones.  Sergeant  Dugmore 
was  a  stolid,  optimistic  fellow,  who  never  trou- 
bled himself  about  threatening  dangers  until 
they  arrived.  Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the 
evil  thereof,  was  the  way  in  which  he  disposed 
of  future  perils.  Hallam  that  morning  envied 
his  sergeant  in  his  poise  of  a  calm  and  unimagi- 
native spirit. 

Between  Dugmore  and  Hallam  there  were  a 
true  understanding  and  a  real  affection.  Dug- 
more was  a  typical  English  soldier,  one  of  the 

184 


THROUGH  DEATH  VALLEY  BY  DAYLIGHT 

Old  Army,  of  that  splendid,  unchanging  type,  the 
same  in  fair  weather  and  in  foul. 

With  the  infallible  instinct  of  the  old  soldier, 
Dugmore  recognized  in  Cyril  Hallam  a  gentle- 
man, which  was  the  first  requisite  of  an  officer. 
With  this  instinct,  the  old  British  soldiers  would 
sooner  trust  themselves  under  the  leadership  of 
an  eighteen-year-old  school-boy,  just  out  of  Eton, 
than  under  a  grizzled  old  sergeant-major  of  forty 
years'  campaigning.  It  was  the  difference  in 
spirit  that  counted,  and  Dugmore  was  well  aware 
of  the  high  spirit  of  his  young  lieutenant.  The 
very  quality  that  made  his  brother  officers  doubt 
him  made  his  men  have  faith  in  Hallam.  They 
felt  instinctively  that  his  fears  were  for  them  and 
not  for  himself. 

All  the  men  under  his  command  felt  a  deep  af- 
fection for  Cyril  Hallam.  He  was  an  officer  who 
treated  them  like  soldiers,  and  yet  remembered 
that  they  had  the  hearts  of  men.  When  Driver 
Holmes's  father  was  killed  it  was  Cyril  Hallam 
that  comforted  the  lad.  Hallam  was  walking 
through  the  horse-lines  late  at  night  when  he 
heard  some  one  sobbing.  He  peered  along  the 
picketing  rope,  and  there,  with  his  head  against 
Black  Nige's  mane,  he  found  the  bereaved 
youngster,  sobbing  out  his  sorrow  against  the 
neck  of  his  faithful  horse.    It  seemed  that  Nige, 

185 


THE   REAL   FRONT 

with  his  soft  eyes  and  his  knowing,  sympathetic 
ears,  was  the  forlorn  youth's  only  comforter. 
But  there  in  the  darkness  of  the  horse-lines 
Hallam's  arm  had  stolen  around  the  sobbing 
frame  and  Driver  Holmes  had  discovered  that 
his  officer  was  also  his  big  brother. 

If  Cyril  Hallam  could  have  seen,  in  the  gloom 
that  morning,  the  affection  with  which  his  men 
regarded  him  as  he  galloped  up  and  down  the 
column,  he  would  have  felt  much  comfort,  for 
he  would  have  realized  that  with  their  love 
for  him  they  would  have  followed  him  through 
hell. 

But  he  saw  none  of  this.  He  was  haunted  only 
by  the  brooding  thought  that  he  might  fail  his 
men  in  the  crisis  just  ahead. 

Everything  went  well  for  the  first  mile  along 
the  rue  de  Baupaume;  then  an  accident  drew 
Hallam  from  his  introspective  thoughts — one  of 
his  limbers,  in  turning  too  sharply,  to  avoid  a 
tractor-engine,  went  over  the  embankment  and 
broke  a  pole  and  burst  two  breast  collars.  He 
waited  to  superintend  the  adjustment  of  the  new 
pole  which  the  limber  carried  in  reserve,  instruct- 
ing Sergeant  Dugmore  to  carry  on  straight  ahead 
through  the  town  of  Pozieres. 

When  the  work  of  repair  was  completed  and 
the  limber  returned  to  the  road  he  galloped  ahead 

186 


THROUGH  DEATH  VALLEY  BY  DAYLIGHT 

to  join  the  main  column,  telling  the  limber  to 
follow  under  a  N.  C.  O. 

Great  was  Hallam's  consternation  to  find  the 
whole  main  column  held  up  on  the  road,  only 
half  a  mile  ahead.  A  9.2  battery,  moving  up 
ahead  with  caterpillar  tractor-engine,  obstructed 
one  side  of  the  road,  while  a  field-gun  was 
broken  down  on  the  other  side,  completely  block- 
ing the  right-of-way.  A  group  of  gunners  and 
drivers  were  working  desperately  to  clear  the 
disabled  gun  and  limbers.  While  this  was  in 
progress  an  overanxious  driver  in  the  rear,  in 
attempting  to  move  up,  had  crashed  a  general- 
service  wagon  against  the  tractor-engine  and 
smashed  a  wheel. 

Sergeant  Dugmore  made  frantic  efforts  to  clear 
away  the  obstruction,  while  Hellfire  MacDougal 
poured  a  perfervid  stream  of  blasphemy  on  the 
heads  of  garrison  gunners,  who  were  forever 
blocking  all  the  roads  on  God  Almighty's  earth. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  chaos  Hallam  moved 
calmly,  his  quiet  voice  now  and  again  uttering 
words  of  direction.  His  serene  appearance  was 
the  inverse  expression  of  the  raging  panic  in  his 
soul.  During  this  awful  hour  of  waiting  he  suf- 
fered agonies.  Every  precious  minute  that 
passed  meant  added  danger  to  his  men  and 
horses.     He  gazed  at  his  wrist-watch  with  hor- 

187 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

ror,  and  as  the  minutes  passed  a  feeling  of  hope- 
lessness began  to  settle  upon  him. 

The  obstruction  of  the  road  was  not  cleared 
for  over  an  hour,  and  it  was  nearly  six  when  they 
were  on  the  move  again.  By  this  time  they 
should  have  been  just  leaving  the  guns,  with  less 
than  half  an  hour  of  darkness  to  get  them  safely 
through  Death  Valley.  But,  on  account  of  un- 
avoidable delay,  they  had  not  even  begun  the 
trip  into  the  valley. 

Through  the  ruinea  village  of  Pozieres  the 
limbers  rattled.  In  the  dim  gray  twilight  could 
be  descried  pathetic  heaps  of  stone  which  once 
were  smiling  homes.  Here  and  there  batteries 
of  heavy  guns  were  concealed  amidst  the  ruins, 
and  now  they  began  to  speak  with  slow  fire,  as 
if  to  sadden  the  coming  of  the  dawn  over  the 
war-swept  horizon.  Across  on  the  heights  of 
Beaumont  Hummel  a  certain  liveliness  of  the 
German  artillery  was  manifest. 

"Yes,  there's  Fritz  all  right,  alive  and  waiting 
to  give  us  the  glad  hand  down  Death  Valley!" 
sang  out  Driver  Dupont,  the  lead  driver  of 
No.  1  Subsection. 

Apprehensive  glances  were  now  cast  upon  the 
heights  to  the  west  as  out  across  the  opposite 
horizon  the  dawn  began  to  steal.  High  and  sil- 
houetted against  the  east  was  a  ruined  tank,  over 

188 


THROUGH  DEATH  VALLEY  BY  DAYLIGHT 

which  the  sun  suddenly  peeped,  and  the  day  was 
fairly  upon  them. 

After  the  sun  once  showed  his  head,  not  a 
word  was  spoken  in  the  column.  The  signal  to 
trot  was  given  and  every  driver  grimly  set  his 
face  as  the  column  swept  forward.  The  ap- 
pearance of  the  sun,  on  the  one  hand,  and  the 
sound  of  the  guns,  on  the  other,  were  grim  re- 
minders of  the  perils  ahead. 

At  this  juncture  of  the  road  a  long  fire-screen 
of  dust-colored  canvas  eight  feet  high  had  been 
raised  on  the  left  side  of  the  road,  to  shield  traffic 
from  observation  of  Beaumont  Hummel.  In  this 
way  they  could  pass  unseen  by  the  German  gun- 
ners. Finally  a  break  in  the  screen  occurred 
where  a  road  turned  off  into  Death  Valley. 
Before  arriving  at  the  break  in  the  screen,  the 
column  was  halted.  Hallam  had  dismounted 
the  drivers  to  make  sure  of  harness  for  the  final 
dash  when  a  young  subaltern  from  the  sappers, 
in  charge  of  a  road-building  gang,  approached 
him.  With  a  look  of  consternation  upon  his  face, 
he  inquired: 

"Surely  you  don't  intend  to  go  through  Death 
Valley  by  daylight  with  limbers?" 

"I  certainly  do,"  answered  Hallam.  "The 
push  begins  to-morrow  and  our  guns  must  have 
their  supply  of  ammunition  at  all  cost." 

189 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

"Well,  take  it  from  me,  old  chap,  you  will  never 
get  through  that  way  alive,"  said  the  subaltern. 
"Some  limbers  went  in  there  a  half  an  hour  ago 
and  the  Boche  have  knocked  them  to  smithereens. 
The  surgeon  who  went  in  to  attend  to  them  was 
killed,  too.  See,  there  they  are  carrying  out  his 
body  now." 

Sure  enough,  as  if  to  bear  out  his  words,  up 
the  road  and  around  by  the  screen  came  a  group 
of  Red  Cross  orderlies,  carrying  the  limp  form 
of  the  surgeon  who  had  just  been  killed. 

"This  road  is  going  to  be  closed  in  daylight 
by  an  army  order,"  went  on  the  sapper,  "and  if 
you  go  through  now  you  will  not  only  be  throw- 
ing your  own  men  away,  but  you  will  draw  fire 
on  us." 

Hallam  looked  at  the  sun  that  would  be  shining 
on  him  as  a  target  clear  down  the  valley,  and 
then  at  the  German  batteries  firing  at  close 
range.  Just  then  the  picture  of  that  little  cross 
which  had  haunted  his  dream  the  night  before 
loomed  before  him.  Was  this  a  premonition,  a 
warning?  If  he  were  going  to  his  death  alone, 
he  would  not  flinch,  but  should  he  lead  his  men 
to  death  with  him? 

For  an  awful  five  minutes  he  waited  in  trem- 
bling vacillation.  His  will  power  seemed  to 
leave  him;  the  dangers  ahead  seemed  to  magnify 

190 


THROUGH  DEATH  VALLEY  BY  DAYLIGHT 

themselves.  Could  he  face  those  guns,  with  the 
responsibility  of  his  men?  Could  he  not  make 
some  excuse  and  go  about  another  way?  It  was 
up  to  him  what  he  should  do.  He  would  not 
then  throw  away  his  life  and  the  lives  of  his  men. 
He  would  right  reverse  and  go  around  by 
Pozieres  Cemetery. 

Sergeant  Dugmore  here  galloped  up  on  his 
big  gray  mare.  "Well,  Sergeant,  what  do  you 
think  we  had  better  do,  go  around  by  the  tram- 
way: 

Thinking  only  of  his  own  safety,  the  ser- 
geant answered,  "Yes,  sir,  that  will  be  the 
best  way." 

This  sounded  to  Hallam  like  a  capitulation  to 
danger,  and  he  remembered  that  the  tramway 
would  take  all  day.  The  major  had  said,  "Get 
ammunition  through  at  all  cost  by  noon. ' '  Here 
the  great  crisis  which  he  had  always  feared  in 
France  had  come,  and  he  was  going  to  prove  a 
failure.  Already  a  voice  seemed  to  be  whisper- 
ing in  his  ear,  "You  coward!" 

The  order  "Right  reverse"  was  trembling  on 
his  lip;  his  sergeant  advised  it;  the  sapper  ad- 
vised it ;  his  men  by  every  fearful  attitude  were 
imploring  for  that  order;  his  own  physical  safety 
seemed  to  cry  out,  "Right  reverse." 

But  over  all  these  urgings,  that  spirit  which 

191 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

made  him  an  officer  by  divine  right  rose  triumph- 
ant, and  in  a  calm  and  even  voice  he  announced: 

"Men,  we  must  go  ahead  and  finish  this  job. 
At  any  cost  ammunition  must  be  got  through 
to  the  guns.  Our  only  duty  is  to  deliver  the 
goods  or  to  fall  in  the  attempt." 

He  divided  the  column  into  four  subsections  of 
two  limbers  each,  putting  each  subsection  under 
a  N.  C.  O.,  with  instructions  to  move  off  at  ten- 
minute  intervals.  In  this  way  the  target  pre- 
sented would  be  smaller  and  more  difficult  to 
reach. 

"I  will  lead  off  with  the  first  subsection/*  he 
announced.  "Each  subsection  will  follow  at  re- 
spective intervals." 

A  moment  later  Hallam's  subsection  was 
mounted,  and  with  a  thunder  of  hoofs  and  a  roar 
of  wheels  they  went  at  the  full  gallop  down  the 
hard  pave  road.  A  moment's  halt  at  the  screen, 
a  left  wheel,  and  out  into  the  full  observation 
of  the  Hun  batteries  they  swept,  out  into  the  open 
of  Death  Valley  in  broad  daylight.  Was  ever 
such  a  tempting  of  Providence? 

For  the  first  few  hundred  yards  the  road  was 
firm  and  the  headlong  gallop  continued.  Once 
in  the  face  of  the  German  guns,  every  thought  of 
vacillation  or  uncertainty  fled.  Like  the  gambler 
playing  for  heavy  stakes,  Cyril  Hallam  had  com- 

192 


THROUGH  DEATH  VALLEY  BY  DAYLIGHT 

mitted  himself  to  the  attempt,  and  now  his  pas- 
sage toward  the  guns  seemed  to  be  as  resistless 
as  the  law  of  gravity. 

He  was  surprised  by  the  fixity  of  his  purpose 
and  the  coolness  of  his  nerves.  It  seemed  as 
though  some  divine  power  had  been  imparted 
to  him  to  help  him  meet  his  crisis.  He  was  in 
Death  Valley,  facing  the  German  guns  by  day- 
light, with  the  greatest  fear  of  his  life  come  true, 
and  the  heart  of  fear  was  gone. 

About  two  hundred  yards  beyond  the  screen 
his  nerves,  preternaturally  keen,  caught  up  a 
dim,  distant  hum  that  grew  into  a  loud  whir; 
then  fifty  yards  to  his  left  came  a  rude  "Crump!" 
and  a  great  geyser  of  earth  and  steel  and  smoke 
shot  forty  feet  into  the  air. 

"That's  a  5.9,"  observed  Driver  Dupont,  be- 
side whom  he  was  riding.  "They  are  certainly 
opening  on  us  with  big  stuff." 

The  first  gun  was  the  signal  for  several  others 
to  begin  registering,  and  from  the  heights  of 
Beaumont  Hummel  several  batteries  began 
searching  for  the  moving  target  which  they  pre- 
sented. On  several  occasions  a  shower  of  mud 
was  shot  upon  them  and  a  few  small  pieces  of 
broken  metal  fell  harmlessly  upon  the  limbers. 

They  had  heard  a  great  deal  of  talk  about  the 
German  guns  being  erratic  in  their  shooting.    It 

13  193 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

was  said  that  the  rifling  in  their  guns  had  been 
worn  by  constant  firing,  until  accurate  ranging 
was  impossible.   This  morning  certainly  proved  it. 

"Touching  wood,  sir,"  observed  Driver  Du- 
pont,  "I  don't  see  how  Fritz  makes  so  many 
lovely  misses.  He's  carving  holes  in  the  land- 
scape all  around  us,  just  as  if  we  were  in  a 
charmed  circle." 

Driver  Dupont  was  a  swarthy  lumber-jack 
from  Maine,  a  most  capable  fellow  purposely 
placed  as  lead  driver  of  the  first  subsection.  He 
was  a  perfect  horseman,  absolutely  cold-blooded 
under  shell-fire.  He  was  driving  a  great,  power- 
ful pair  of  roans,  known  as  Emperor  Nero  and 
Queen  Alexandra.  Emperor  Nero  had  knocked 
the  top  of  his  head  on  a  troop-train,  and  was 
reputed  to  be  crazy.  Dupont  was  the  only  man 
in  the  brigade  who  could  control  the  brute.  A 
hell-for-leather  charge  like  this  morning  seemed 
to  put  the  big  crazy  roan  right  in  his  element. 

"How  do  you  like  this  landscape  compared 
with  San  Juan  Hill?"  Hallam  inquired  of  Du- 
pont, who  had  served  with  Roosevelt's  Rough- 
Riders. 

"Well,  sir,"  he  replied,  "I  ain't  particularly 
partial  to  such  landscapes,  but  the  Spick  pop- 
guns in  Cuba  was  considerably  less  hell  than  these 

crumps  of  Fritz's." 

194 


THROUGH  DEATH  VALLEY  BY  DAYLIGHT 

As  they  moved  along  up  the  valley  the  hard 
road  gave  way  to  an  irresolute  trail  of  mud  and 
shell-holes.  Their  gallop  was  toned  down  to  a 
walk,  and  the  hostile  batteries  continued  seek- 
ing for  them.  Driver  Dewsbery  was  here  taken 
with  violent  fits  of  fear,  and  began  jerking  his 
horses'  heads,  like  one  afflicted  with  St.  Vitus's 
dance. 

"Easy  there,  Dewsbery,"  admonished  Hal- 
lam,  in  a  calm  voice,  and  a  glance  from  his  quiet 
eye  steadied  the  nervous  driver. 

Along  this  valley  a  battle  had  recently  been 
fought  and  the  ground  was  strewn  with  the 
wreckage.  Down  in  a  trench  to  their  left  Hal- 
lam  saw  a  dead  German.  His  face  was  as  gray 
as  his  tunic,  his  great  boots  were  buried  in  mud, 
his  eyes  wide  and  staring.  Just  over  the  trench, 
fallen  face  forward,  were  a  sergeant  and  three 
Tommies.  They  lay  as  they  had  fallen,  still 
wearing  the  complete  kit  which  they  had  adjusted 
for  the  last  time  for  the  attack  the  other  morning. 
The  sergeant  was  a  powerful  fellow.  Under  him 
lay  his  rifle,  with  the  bayonet  fixed.  Hallam 
could  imagine  how  one  of  his  broad  shoulders 
would  have  delighted  in  what  he  called  "Goin' 
for  'em  wid  the  cold  steel."  But  he  and  his 
bayonet  had  been  halted  forever  in  mid-career. 

Hundreds  of  times  Cyril  Hallam  had  passed 

195 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

dead  forms  without  seeing  them.  This  morning 
he  seemed  to  have  a  strange  interest  in  the  pros- 
trate bodies  strewn  about.  On  other  occasions 
he  might  have  passed  without  seeing  one,  but 
now  none  escaped  him.  Perhaps  it  was  a  fellow- 
feeling.  He  was  on  the  harvest-fields  of  Death; 
upon  the  heights  of  Beaumont  Hummel  the 
reapers  were  busy,  and  at  any  moment  they 
might  also  gather  him  in  with  those  who  had 
already  fallen. 

To  the  left  and  far  to  the  rear  he  could  see 
another  group.  Bombardier  MacDonald  and  the 
second  subsection  were  also  in  the  valley.  The 
horses  were  now  wet  and  panting,  and  the  deep 
mud  made  the  hauling  extremely  hard.  Two 
halts  had  to  be  ordered  to  allow  the  teams  to  gain 
their  wind.  Nearer  and  nearer,  the  longed-for 
crest  of  the  protecting  hill  began  to  loom  up 
before  them,  like  a  covert  from  the  tempest,  until 
at  last,  with  horses  and  drivers  alike  soaked  with 
that  dire  sweat  that  comes  from  fear  of  death, 
they  dragged  themselves  under  the  crest  and 
were  safe  from  observation  by  the  enemy.  Up 
over  a  ramshackle  bridge  where  a  horse  fell  off 
into  the  mud,  five  minutes'  tugging  to  get  him  out, 
and  with  a  last  rush  they  arrived  at  the  guns. 

The  battery  had  been  in  action  during  the 
night  and  all  were  asleep,  but  the  sentry  gave 

196 


THROUGH   DEATH   VALLEY   BY  DAYLIGHT 

the  alarm  and  the  crews  came  tumbling  out  of 
the  gun-pits  where  they  slept.  The  limbers  were 
wheeled  into  position,  and  drivers  and  gunners 
jumped  to  the  task  of  unloading. 

"Do  the  job  as  quickly  as  you  can,"  said  Hal- 
lam  to  the  sergeant  in  charge.  "We  don't  want 
to  lose  a  second  in  getting  out  of  here." 

Just  over  the  crest  beyond  a  cloud  of  shrapnel 
was  bursting,  and  now  and  again  a  solitary  burst 
came  dangerously  near,  but  none  heeded  it. 
When  the  last  of  the  eight  limbers  had  arrived 
safely  Hallam  proceeded  to  the  dugout  where  the 
major  slept,  and  reported  that  his  job  had  been 
completed  safely. 

"Well,  your  luck  is  always  good,  Hallam," 
laughed  the  major.  "They  haven't  made  a 
shell  yet  to  find  you." 

"That  may  be,  sir,"  he  said,  grimly,  "but  you 
don't  get  me  coming  through  Death  Valley  by 
daylight  again  with  ammunition  unless  I  bring 
it  in  by  aeroplane." 

As  each  subsection  completed  its  unloading  it 
set  off  immediately  on  the  return.  When  he 
came  out  of  the  major's  dugout  the  last  two 
limbers  under  Sergeant  Dugmore  were  just  trot- 
ting over  the  bridge,  and  the  sound  of  bursting 
shells  down  the  valley  told  him  that  the  Germans 
were  again  searching  for  them. 

197 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

White  Stockings  was  all  atremble,  pawing  the 
air  and  neighing,  when  Hallam  approached. 
He  was  very  high-strung,  and  the  inactivity  amid 
the  din  was  too  much  for  him.  It  required  a 
supreme  effort  to  mount,  and  instantaneously, 
as  the  rider's  knees  gripped  his  withers,  the  horse 
was  away  like  the  wind. 

Dashing  around  onto  the  trail,  Hallam  caught 
sight  of  his  men  at  long  intervals,  struggling  back 
down  the  valley,  while  here  and  there  the  shells 
were  bursting.  As  if  to  welcome  him  into  the 
lists,  a  4.1  high-explosive  shell  buried  itself  near 
by,  showering  White  Stockings  and  himself  with 
flying  dirt.  For  a  moment  the  horse  quivered, 
irresolute,  the  proximity  of  the  shot  serving  to 
check  him;  then  away  again  with  his  great,  lop- 
ing strides  of  the  hunting-field,  while  Hallam 
pinched  himself,  and  examined  the  horse's  flanks 
to  make  sure  that  no  piece  of  the  shell  had 
gone  home. 

At  a  furious  gallop  he  tore  down  the  valley, 
passing  one  limber  after  another  until  the  fore- 
most had  been  reached.  Looking  back  along  the 
line,  he  saw  for  an  instant  the  doughty  Dupont 
guiding  with  omnipotent  hand  his  fiery  steeds; 
then  a  great  burst  of  earth  and  smoke  came  up 
from  beneath  and  swallowed  them  in  a  cloud  of 
flying  debris.     When  the  cloud  of  the  explosion 

198 


THROUGH  DEATH  VALLEY  BY  DAYLIGHT 

cleared,  the  gallant  roans  and  the  second  team 
were  gone;  only  four  horses  remained;  the  wheel 
driver  was  also  down. 

Cyril  Hallam  felt  a  pain  shoot  through  him 
as  he  beheld  this  sight.  He  could  stand  suf- 
fering in  his  own  body  far  better  than  to  watch 
calamity  among  his  men  or  horses.  He  gal- 
loped back  while  the  lead  horses  of  the  nearest 
limber  were  detached,  according  to  custom,  and 
brought  up  to  replace  the  casualties  of  their  dis- 
abled partner.  The  enemy  had  at  last  scored  a 
direct  hit;  the  drivers  and  horses  of  the  lead  and 
second  team  had  been  blown  to  pieces.  The 
wheel  driver  was  also  dead,  with  a  piece  of  metal 
through  his  head.  All  were  beyond  aid.  New 
harness  parts  were  whipped  from  the  dashboard 
to  replace  broken  traces  and  breast  collars,  the 
new  leaders  were  hooked  in,  drivers  mounted,  and 
the  column  was  under  way  once  more. 

Driver  Dupont  was  for  two  years  champion 
horseman  of  the  brigade.  In  and  out  of  many 
battles  he  had  passed  unscathed,  until  he  had 
become  in  the  eyes  of  all  a  pillar  of  the  battery, 
seeming  as  fixed  as  the  hills.  But  now  his  mates 
had  to  leave  him  and  his  imperial  roans  prostrate 
forever  on  that  bloody  trail. 

The  column  was  only  under  way  when  another 
casualty  was  suffered  in  the  same  subsection. 

199 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

The  lead  driver  and  his  riding-horse  went  down 
together;  the  horse  was  killed  and  the  man 
slightly  wounded  in  his  left  arm. 

The  dead  horse  was  known  as  Nige,  Driver 
Holmes's  especial  pet.  He  had  been  driven  in  a 
team  with  another  black  horse,  known  as  Nigger, 
and  now,  as  they  cut  out  old  Nige,  Nigger  rubbed 
his  nose  against  his  driver,  his  ears  forward, 
his  eyes  wide,  his  every  attitude  asking  patheti- 
cally, "What  have  they  done  with  my  old  mate, 
Nige?"  Sorrow  was  written  in  every  attitude  of 
the  poor  horse. 

Hallam  pitied  his  men  under  shell-fire,  but  the 
horses  stirred  in  him  an  even  deeper  sympathy. 
It  was  heartbreaking  for  him  to  see  the  trem- 
bling fear  of  the  poor  dumb  animals,  to  feel  their 
unreasoning  alarms,  to  hear  their  terrifying 
breath  when  they  were  hit,  and  to  look  upon 
their  mild,  reproachful  eyes  as  they  died.  To 
see  these  horses  that  he  had  loved  and  cared  for 
for  months  tortured  and  dying  was  almost  more 
than  Hallam  could  stand. 

Nigger,  it  was  discovered,  also  had  a  slight 
wound  in  the  breast.  He  was,  therefore,  de- 
tached, and  the  wounded  horse  proceeded  to  the 
rear,  while  the  limber  went  on  with  four  horses, 
which  was  an  easy  draft,  as  the  ammunition  had 
been  discharged.    Two  minutes  later,  Bombardier 

200 


THROUGH   DEATH   VALLEY   BY  DAYLIGHT 

MacDonald  and  three  of  his  drivers,  with  four 
horses,  all  went  down  together  under  a  shower  of 
shrapnel.  The  three  men  were  all  wounded. 
Bombardier  was  hit  severely.  The  wounded  were 
placed  on  the  dashboards  of  two  limbers;  one, 
who  was  too  weak  to  hold  on,  was  made  fast 
by  telephone-wire,  and  they  were  off  again. 

"This  is  pretty  thick  just  now,  sir,"  said 
Sergeant  Dugmore.  He  had  been  everywhere 
where  there  was  a  casualty,  and  had  always  been 
master  of  the  situation.  Suddenly — whir! — and 
a  "whiz-bang"  (a  high- velocity  shell)  just 
grazed  his  back  in  its  flight;  he  could  actu- 
ally feel  its  breath.  Turning  in  his  saddle,  the 
stolid  old  British  sergeant  exclaimed,  in  fine  con- 
tempt, "Aw,  stop  yer  blinkin'  shovin',  will  yer?" 
Just  then  another  burst  of  shrapnel  went  home 
and  two  drivers  and  four  more  horses  were  down. 
Both  of  the  drivers  were  wounded,  and  as  they 
were  lifted  onto  the  dashboards  it  seemed  that 
the  limbers  were  fast  becoming  ambulances. 

Through  all  this  tragedy  and  horror  Cyril  Hal- 
lam  still  found  himself  calm  and  undaunted. 
When  things  looked  blackest  his  stout  heart  re- 
mained the  same,  and  more  than  once  he  was 
amazed  at  his  own  unshaken  poise. 

Onlv  a  short  distance  remained  between  him 
and  the  screen.     Two  subsections  had  already 

201 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

passed  around  into  comparative  safety;  then  in 
a  rapture  of  joy  he  saw  the  other  subsections 
disappear,  one  by  one,  Sergeant  Dugmore  van- 
ishing after  the  last  limber. 

Like  a  true  officer,  Hallam  was  riding  a  hun- 
dred yards  behind,  so  as  to  be  sure  that  all  his 
men  got  into  safety  first.  As  the  last  of  his 
limbers  went  out  of  sight,  he  knew  that  he  had 
successfully  run  the  gantlet  through  Death  Val- 
ley by  daylight.  He  had  met  his  crisis  in  France, 
and  he  had  conquered.  He  was  no  coward.  He 
turned  in  his  saddle  to  take  a  parting  glance  at 
Beaumont  Hummel,  when  a  whirring  noise  filled 
his  ears;  then  everything  went  black  about  him 
from  a  great  explosion,  and  darkness  followed. 


XII 

THE  RED   CROSS  NURSE 

npHROUGH  the  gloom-haunted  streets  of  a 
A  shattered  town  on  the  fringes  of  the  zone  of 
fire  there  passes  a  Red  Cross  nurse.  Despite  the 
stiffness  of  her  regulation  cap,  there  burst  from 
beneath  rebellious  waves  of  auburn  hair  under 
which  her  blue  eyes  sparkle,  while  her  face  is 
dimpled  with  a  smile  at  once  arresting  and 
bewitching. 

Private  Murphy,  of  the  Inniskillen  Fusileers, 
regards  her  approach  with  rhapsody,  and  as  she 
passes  collapses  into  the  arms  of  his  mate  Gil- 
hooley,  exclaiming,  "May  the  howly  Virgin 
bless  us,  but  the  angels  have  come  to  the 
Somme!" 

Down  the  long  dark  street  of  the  ruined  town 
the  girl  of  the  Red  Cross  passes  like  a  benedic- 
tion. The  very  shattered  pavements  seem  to  feel 
old  memories  at  the  patter  of  her  pretty  feet. 
Many  seasons  of  tribulation  have  come  and  gone 
since  this  old  town  has  throbbed  to  maiden  foot- 

203 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

steps.     But  in  the  somber  present  the  light  of 
other  days  rekindles  as  the  fair  nurse  passes. 

No  wonder  that  Private  Murphy  loses  himself 
in  rhapsodies.  The  whole  long  street  goes  with 
him.  The  armorer  corporal  at  the  door  of  his 
billet,  looking  up  from  his  work  with  sour  and 
knitted  brow,  suddenly  has  his  face  reflecting 
brightness.  He  has  seen  her  and  that  is  enough. 
The  pompous  regimental  sergeant-major,  the 
cares  of  an  empire  shadowed  forth  on  his  features, 
without  warning  seems  to  drop  into  his  second 
childhood  as  he  halts  a  curse  in  mid-career  and 
whispers,  "The  dear  little  thing!" 

A  battalion,  marching  off  for  the  front,  are 
favored  by  an  especial  smile,  and  with  lighter 
hearts  they  slog  along  over  the  pave  to  their  fate. 

Driver  Derbyshire,  of  the  Army  Service  Corps, 
intercepting  the  smile  intended  for  the  fighting- 
men,  arrogates  the  same  to  himself,  and  is 
spirited  through  high  air  by  its  very  memory, 
until  he  runs  amuck  of  Private  Murphy,  who 
exclaims,  "Aw,  ye  smirkin'  strawberry  -  jam 
pincher,  faith,  an'  yeVe  got  a  dose  o'  shell-shock 
from  lookin'  at  the  loidy." 

All  the  way  down  that  darkened  street  the 
little  nurse  takes  with  her  a  reciprocity  of  smiles. 
At  the  far  end  of  the  town,  grim,  glowering 
General  Bangs,  just  entering  his  car,  catches  a 

204 


THE    RED    CROSS    NURSE 

glimpse  of  the  Sister,  and  like  sunshine  through 
April  showers  his  face  beams  forth  as  he  ex- 
claims, with  the  wealth  of  gladness:  "Good 
evening,  Sister.  It's  delightful  just  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  you  in  passing." 

All  through  the  night  the  sentry  on  his  beat 
before  headquarters  chuckles  to  himself,  for  he 
has  seen  that  transcendental  General  Bangs  go 
down  before  the  nurse's  smile,  and  so  a  touch  of 
nature  makes  the  whole  world  kin. 

Early  in  the  war  I  heard  an  old  man  in  his  arm- 
chair in  a  London  club  hold  forth  on  how  women 
should  not  be  allowed  to  go  to  the  front.  "It's 
all  nonsense,"  he  exclaimed,  "so  unnecessarily 
exposing  our  women  to  danger.  I  tell  you,  male 
orderlies  and  male  nurses  are  just  as  good  for  the 
job."  So  much  for  an  arm-chair  pronouncement. 
But  the  universal  testimony  of  the  wounded  man 
is  that  the  soft  and  tender  ministrations  of  the 
women  are  the  most  healing,  soothing  influences 
to  be  found  in  a  military  hospital. 

Ever  since  the  days  of  Florence  Nightingale 
the  Red  Cross  nurse  has  been  quietly  but  steadily 
winning  her  way  into  the  theater  of  war.  At  the 
beginning  there  were  many  old  Tories  who  said, 
"Pooh-pooh!"  when  women  began  to  encroach 
upon  the  battle-field. 

Lord  Kitchener  was  one  of  those  who  at  first 

205 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

believed  in  male  nurses.  But  later  experience 
completely  changed  his  views,  and  he  became  an 
out-and-out  believer  in  Sisters  being  attached 
even  to  clearing-stations  well  up  toward  the 
firing-line. 

The  present  war  has  established  the  position 
of  the  nursing  Sister  as  an  indispensable  adjunct 
of  the  army  in  the  field.  I  saw  in  France  the 
grave  of  a  nurse  who  had  died  in  active  service. 
Hers  was  as  truly  a  soldier's  grave  as  that  of  any 
fallen  infantryman  or  gunner.  Faithful  unto 
death  in  her  post  of  duty,  she  left  behind  the  same 
example  of  courage  and  of  self-devotion  that 
characterized  her  brothers  of  the  combatant 
forces.  The  life  of  a  Red  Cross  nurse  is  one  of 
extreme  hardship  and  privation,  and  often  of 
great  danger.  The  lot  of  nurses  in  our  peaceful 
cities,  as  we  are  all  aware,  is  no  bed  of  roses. 
But  the  life  of  the  army  nurse  is  even  more  exact- 
ing. There  is  no  regularity  for  them  as  in  civil 
life,  and  in  times  of  great  battles  they  often  work 
night  and  day,  without  sleep  or  rest,  until  they 
drop  from  sheer  exhaustion. 

During  one  of  our  big  battles  on  the  Somme 
last  fall  over  ten  thousand  cases  passed  through 
one  clearing-station  alone  in  less  than  a  week. 
The  awful  strain  upon  the  handful  of  Sisters  in 
the  clearing-station  in  a  time  like  this  seems  be- 

206 


THE    RED    CROSS    NURSE 

yond  endurance.  Yet  with  infinite  patience  and 
a  tireless  mercy  they  toil  on  hour  after  hour  with 
the  unceasing  stream  of  wounded,  treating  all 
with  the  same  invincible  sweetness. 

One  of  the  standing  miracles  to  me  is  the  way 
they  preserve  their  cheery  smile,  which  often  to 
the  wan-faced  Tommy  is  more  salutary  than  any 
other  restorative.  One  would  expect  to  find 
them  callous  and  hardened  after  months  of  this 
kind  of  life,  but  such  is  not  the  case.  Those  who 
are  now  old  campaigners,  who  have  been  out 
since  1914,  seem  to  possess  as  spontaneous  a 
sympathy  as  those  who  have  only  just  arrived. 

When  the  wounded  first  come  in  from  the 
front  they  are  often  in  a  deplorable  condition. 
Unkempt  and  unshaven,  their  clothes  filthy  with 
vermin,  lice,  and  blood,  their  very  appearance 
seems  loathsome,  and  yet  these  gentle  Sisters 
bathe  them  and  clothe  them  anew,  setting  them- 
selves to  the  task  with  the  same  cheery  spirit 
with  which  they  would  engage  in  the  most 
pleasant  occupation. 

The  savant,  like  my  old  friend  of  the  city  club, 
would  declare  that  women  could  not  do  such 
things.  "Why,"  he  would  maintain,  "the  emer- 
gencies of  war  would  render  her  absolutely  use- 
less!" From  my  observation  of  the  Red  Cross 
nurse,  my  faith  in  the  capability  of  woman  has 

207 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

infinitely  increased.  I  no  longer  have  ears  for 
this  idle  prattle  on  the  limited  sphere  of  women, 
about  their  not  being  able  to  do  this  and  not 
having  the  power  to  stand  that.  I  have  seen  a 
little  chit  of  a  girl  with  a  Red  Cross  brassard  on 
her  arm  standing  up  to  the  emergencies  of  war  as 
well  as  any  man,  and,  to  quote  from  the  ver- 
nacular, "I've  got  to  hand  it  to  them." 

Once  in  my  artillery  observation  post  in  the 
Ypres  salient  I  tacked  up  a  picture  of  a  group  of 
American  high-school  girls  who  were  acting  as 
Red  Cross  nurses  in  Texas.  Any  one  of  these 
girls  would  have  been  awarded  a  prize  at  a 
beauty  show.  As  the  observation  post  was 
visited  by  numerous  officers,  it  is  needless  to  re- 
late that  the  picture  aroused  much  ecstasy  of 
speech. 

"Oh,  I  say!"  .  .  .  "My  word,  what  dreams!" 
.  .  .  "  Oh,  to  be  a  wounded  hero  in  Texas !"  were 
among  the  spontaneous  outbursts.  Perhaps  a 
chap  who  had  been  back  to  England  wounded, 
"Been  to  Blighty,"  as  we  say  in  the  trenches, 
would  hold  forth  about  the  charms  of  the  young 
V.  A.  D.  nurses. 

"All  the  V.  A.  D.'s  are  just  like  that,  boys," 
declared  one  who  had  been  in  the  great  hospital 
at  Brighton  Pavilion.  "I  used  to  have  one 
come  around   to   take  my   temperature   in  the 

208 


THE    RED    CROSS   NURSE 

morning,  and  then  I  lived  in  hope  until  she  came 
around  again  at  night.  Take  a  tip  from  me, 
that  if  you  get  a  Blighty,  go  to  the  Brighton 
Pavilion,  for  they're  all  beauties  there— just  like 
these  Texas  girls."  This  was  an  individual's 
opinion. 

But  in  a  deeper  sense  one  sees  real  beauty  in 
every  nurse  of  the  Red  Cross.  The  first  impres- 
sion may  not  be  striking,  but  for  the  wounded 
soldier  the  passage  of  time  always  serves  to  un- 
fold new  charm  and  sweetness  in  his  nurse's  face. 

"I  never  had  a  nurse  yet  that  I  didn't  think 
was  lovely  after  the  second  day,"  declared  a 
brother  officer  of  mine.  Theirs  is  that  deepest, 
rarest  form  of  beauty  that  comes  alone  through 
love  and  service.  It  is  the  same  loveliness  that 
one  beholds  in  his  mother's  smile,  retaining  its 
eternal  freshness  while  firefly  charmers  wax  and 
wane. 

These  Sisters  of  Mercy  in  our  hospitals  are  the 
farthest  antitheses  to  war  in  the  trenches. 
While  we  of  the  guns  are  striving  to  smash  down 
and  to  destroy,  they  of  the  Red  Cross  are  strug- 
gling to  build  up  and  to  restore.  While  our 
business  is  to  kill,  theirs  is  to  save.  In  the 
trenches  one  catches  horrific  flashes  of  the  depths 
of  human  hate;  in  the  hospitals  one  sees  the 
heights  of  human  sacrifice  and  love. 

14  209 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

In  the  awful  hell  of  the  front  line  our  faith  in 
humanity  may  be  shaken.  But  that  faith  re- 
turns when  we  go  into  the  hospitals  and  see  the 
soft  hand  of  the  Sister,  soothing  the  fevered  brow 
of  friend  and  foe  alike. 

Heartsick  from  the  sordid  scenes  of  this  most 
brutal  war,  I  love  to  remember  the  German  sur- 
geon who  carefully  dressed  one  of  our  wounded 
men  in  No  Man's  Land,  and  gently  carried  him 
back  into  our  lines,  to  the  care  of  his  own  com- 
rades. A  British  surgeon  who  afterward  re- 
dressed the  wound  told  me  that  the  enemy  sur- 
geon had  performed  a  masterly  task  in  his  first 
dressing.  The  nobility  of  war  in  other  days  was 
in  such  deeds  as  this.  Among  an  enemy  that 
has  crucified  our  Red  Cross  stretcher-bearers 
with  bayonets,  that  has  fired  on  the  ambulance 
flag,  and  that  has  sunk  our  hospital  ships  on  the 
seas — among  such  abysmal  foes  one  is  glad  even 
for  a  single  ray  of  kindness  like  that  of  the  good 
German  doctor. 

In  our  hospitals  I  am  glad  to  say  that  such  old 

chivalry  still  reigns.     When  I  see  one  of  our  own 

sweet  nurses  tenderly  soothing  the  pain  of  a 

wounded  Hun  I  say  to  myself,  "There  is  still 

room  for  faith."     Here  at  least  the  precepts  of 

Him  who  taught  us  mercy  are  not  altogether 

dead. 

210 


THE    RED    CROSS   NURSE 

There  are  pacifists  in  whom  I  believe  with  all 
my  heart.  They  are  the  pacifists  of  the  Red 
Cross  brassard,  the  angels  of  mercy  behind  the 
battle-field.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  lighten  the 
stern  face  of  war.  My  business  as  a  soldier  is 
killing  Germans.  War  for  us  is  war  to  the 
death.  But  I  am  glad  that  the  flag  of  the 
Geneva  Convention,  so  stained  by  our  enemies, 
still  flies  behind  our  lines  unsullied,  with  mercy 
alike  for  friend  and  foe. 

I  remember  in  a  clearing-station  at  Aire-sur- 
le-Lys  there  was  a  German  soldier  dying  from  his 
wounds.  Morning,  noon,  and  night  the  nurse 
on  his  case  was  watching  over  him,  attending  to 
his  every  whim,  and  soothing  his  every  fear  as 
he  slipped  toward  the  Dark  Valley.  Before  he 
died  the  faithful  nurse  transcribed  for  him  a 
letter  to  his  wife. 

It  was  my  duty  to  censor  this  sad  epistle.  I 
hold  it  in  mind  as  a  tragic  memoir  of  the  war. 
In  quaintest  German  it  ran: 

My  dear  Wife, — I  am  sore  wounded.  I  shall  never- 
more return  to  you  and  to  my  dear  children  and  to  my  kin- 
dred in  our  Fatherland.     Good-by  forever. 

Heinrich. 

The  beauty  of  a  life  of  service  is  most  serene 

when  we  behold  such  ministrations  as  those  of 

this  nurse  to  a  stricken  foe. 

211 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

Many  romances  are  woven  in  the  hospitals, 
and  a  war  wedding  is  often  a  happy  sequel  to  the 
story.  A  rough,  big-hearted  Australian,  who 
was  in  the  next  bed  to  me  in  a  base  hospital, 
confided  in  me  the  evolution  of  his  heart  since 
coming  under  the  ministrations  of  the  nursing 
Sisters. 

'You  see,  mate,  I'm  what  they  call  a  bush- 
ranger out  in  Australia.  I'm  one  of  the  hard 
ones,  and  I  always  passed  as  a  woman-hater. 
I  used  to  look  with  contempt  on  my  pals  who 
lost  their  heart  upon  a  little  bit  of  fluff.  I've 
played  on  the  red  all  my  life,  and  my  conception 
of  woman  was  beastly  low.  But  this  hospital 
business  has  opened  my  eyes  to  something  new 
in  woman,  something  I  never  dreamed  of.  I 
can  feel  it  comin',  mate — some  day  I'm  goin' 
to  fall  for  one  o'  these  little  girls  as  bad  as  the 
worst.  That  fair-haired  cove  of  the  Flying 
Corps  across  the  ward  there  just  worships  the 
night  Sister's  shadow,  but  I  must  confess  he's 
got  nothin'  on  me." 

The  "fair-haired  cove  of  the  Flying  Corps" 

did  have  something  on  the  Australian,  however, 

for  he  was  the  Young  Lochinvar  who  walked  off 

with  the  bride.     A  few  months  later  I  recognized 

his  picture  in  the  Illustrated  London  Neivs  over 

the  caption,  "War  Wedding."     The  picture  was 

9M 


THE    RED    CROSS    NURSE 

taken  just  outside  an  old  ivy-covered  parish 
church.  A  guard  of  honor  of  his  brother  officers 
had  formed  the  arch  of  slender  swords,  and 
under  the  gleaming  arch,  amid  showers  of 
confetti,  came  the  smiling  aviator  with  our 
sweet  nurse  of  the  night  watches  leaning  on  his 
arm. 

Like  a  fabulous  memory  from  the  mirage  of 
fairyland  there  lingers  with  me  still  the  face  of 
Sister  O'Calligan,  an  Irish  girl  who  nursed  me 
through  delirious  nights  of  fever. 

It  is  a  clearing-station  on  lines  of  communica- 
tion. I  am  down  with  malaria  and  my  tem- 
perature is  soaring.  Outside  the  chimes  of  St. 
Omer  strike  out  the  long,  long  hours.  Sleep 
will  not  come,  and  the  night  it  seems  will  never 
pass.  I  am  tossed  by  the  fever  upon  delirious 
seas,  when  like  a  benediction  a  shadow  falls 
across  my  fevered  cot.  It  is  the  Lady  of  the 
Lamp;  she  pauses  and  a  cool  hand  soothes  down 
my  fevered  brow,  and  a  soft  voice  gently  croons 
a  song,  "When  Irish  Eyes  Are  Smiling."  Gaz- 
ing dimly,  I  behold  the  violet  depths  of  Sister 
O'Calligan's  eyes,  and  faintly  I  answer  back  her 
smile. 

I  know  not  whether  any  of  the  learned  phy- 
sicians have  written  on  "The  Therapeutic  Value 
of  a  Nurse's  Smile,"  but  through  those  darkened, 

213 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

tortuous  ways  of  fever  I  know  that  the  glad 
light  on  Sister  O'Calligan's  face  was,  beyond  all 
else,  restoring  me. 

Sister  O'Calligan,  moving  up  and  down  that 
darkened  ward,  casting  her  shadow  from  a  night- 
lamp  in  her  hand,  always  recalled  to  me  the  title, 
"The  Lady  of  the  Lamp,"  by  which  fond  phrase 
the  wounded  of  the  Crimea  always  referred  to 
Florence  Nightingale  as  she  passed  among  them 
at  night. 

Always  before  the  lights  were  dimmed  and 
we  went  to  sleep  in  the  ward  Sister  O'Calligan 
would  sing  to  us  with  a  rich  Irish  voice.  I  can 
recall  a  young  cavalry  subaltern  who  would 
always  implore  at  the  end,  "Oh,  Sister,  just  one 
more!" 

Sister  O'Calligan  added  to  the  charms  of  her 
lovely  face  and  her  violet  eyes  the  beauty  of  a  life 
of  service.  It  was  this  that  made  us  worship 
her  very  shadow  as  she  passed  along  the  ward. 

"I'll  always  remember  you,  Sister!"  exclaimed 
the  impassioned  young  cavalry  subaltern  as  he 
left  the  hospital,  and  he  spoke  for  every  one 
of  us.  Just  as  the  Crimean  veterans  worship 
the  memory  of  their  "Lady  of  the  Lamp,"  of 
Scutari  on  the  Bosphorus,  so  I  shall  always  adore 
the  picture  of  my  "Lady  of  the  Lamp  of  St. 
Omer." 

214 


THE    RED    CROSS    NURSE 

Wherever  the  Red  Cross  nurse  appears  in  the 
abysmal  scenes  of  war,  there  are  the  roses  of 
romance.  As  out  of  mire  and  filth  the  lilies 
bloom,  so  out  of  hate  and  strife  their  deeds  of 
service  ever  blossom  forth  with  sweetness  and 
with  fragrance. 


xm 

THE  STUFF  THAT   MAKES  A   SOLDIER 

TNDER  the  barrack  gate  and  across  the 
^  square  of  the  training-depot  sweep  a  horde 
of  new  recruits;  they  have  just  arrived,  and  they 
represent  a  mob  of  disorder  and  chaos. 

A  sergeant-major  of  the  regulars,  a  lion-tamer 
whose  duty  it  will  be  to  hammer  discipline  into 
the  mob,  regards  its  uncontrolled  vagaries  with 
contemptuous  eye. 

The  sergeant-major  stands  well  back  in  the 
shadow  of  the  gateway  beside  the  sentry-box. 
None  of  these  unconscious  young  men  surging 
by  give  him  a  thought,  but  the  vigilant  eye  of  the 
lion-taming  sergeant  loses  nothing. 

The  youth  with  the  impudent  look  is  slated 
for  a  lesson  in  authority,  many  with  stooping 
shoulders  and  ambling  gait  are  already  allotted 
to  extra  hours  of  "setting-up,"  a  moon-faced 
individual  whose  every  move  spells  stolid  is  un- 
consciously assigned  to  the  "awkward  squad." 
A  raucous-voiced,  hard-looking  gang  from  the 

216 


THE  STUFF  THAT  MAKES  A  SOLDIER 

city  slums  are  the  last  to  pass  through  the  gate, 
and  they  straightway  begin  to  desecrate  the 
barrack  square  with  their  obscene  and  strident 
language.  Immediately,  in  imagination,  the 
sergeant  had  this  gang  doing  pack  drill  at  the 
"steady  double." 

"I'll  take  it  out  of  'em,"  exclaimed  the  drill 
sergeant  to  himself,  slapping  his  leg  sharply  with 
his  swagger-stick,  as  if  to  emphasize  the  way  in 
which  he  meant  to  lay  it  on. 

But  the  sergeant  knew  well  that  a  grim  task 
lay  before  him.  The  magnitude  of  that  task 
was  even  more  fully  appreciated  by  the  colonel 
and  adjutant  in  the  orderly-room,  through  which 
the  horde  now  swept.  In  the  quartermaster's 
lines  the  issuing  of  uniforms  commences,  and  a 
short  time  later  the  mob  begins  to  appear  in 
khaki. 

This  putting  on  of  the  uniform  for  the  first 
time  may  seem  a  slight  performance,  but  it  has 
a  vast  significance.  It  means  that  the  young 
man  has  crossed  his  Rubicon.  It  is  emblematic 
of  renunciation  of  the  world  and  the  acceptance 
of  the  stern  vows  of  the  soldier. 

The  United  States  is  witnessing  that  won- 
drous miracle,  the  transformation  of  civilians 
into  soldiers.  Over  a  million  Americans  have 
recently  donned   the  khaki  for  the  first  time. 

217 


THE   REAL   FRONT 

When  they  made  their  initial  appearance  in 
regimentals,  by  that  appearance  they  gave  proof 
that  they  were  in  the  service  of  their  country. 
But  the  wearing  of  the  uniform  did  not  mean 
that  they  were  soldiers. 

Many  mothers  of  this  country  are  now  able  to 
say,  "My  boy's  in  khaki,"  but  there  are  iron 
struggles  yet  ahead  for  those  same  boys  ere  their 
proud  parents  may  declare,  "My  son's  a  soldier." 
Vast  indeed  is  the  gulf  which  separates  the  masses 
of  prosperous,  self-willed  young  America  from  the 
austere  and  authoritative  world  of  the  soldier. 

Far  away  from  the  cabaret  show  and  the 
limousine  is  the  simple  life  of  the  training-camp. 
The  boy  who  enters  there  must  bid  good-by  to 
"Easy  Street."  In  putting  on  the  uniform  he 
has  crossed  over  from  "Easy  Street"  to  the 
opposite  side,  to  the  side  of  the  street  that  breeds 
strong  men.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  street 
from  "Easy  Street"  he  will  begin  to  learn  again 
forgotten  secrets  of  his  forebears,  the  pioneers, 
and,  like  them,  out  of  struggle  he  will  come  forth 
a  soldier. 

A  good  soldier  is  not  made  in  a  day.  He  does 
not  spring,  like  Pallas  Athene,  full-panoplied 
from  the  brow  of  Jove.  He  is  the  fruit  of  a  long, 
hard  struggle  and  of  tireless  training. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  American  Civil  War 

218 


THE  STUFF  THAT  MAKES  A  SOLDIER 

how  proudly  the  first  troops  marched  away! 
They  all  esteemed  themselves  true  soldiers  at  the 
start,  but  the  rabble  at  Bull  Run  were  sorely 
disenchanted.  How  different  were  the  war- 
worn, seasoned  veterans  that  marched  down 
Pennsylvania  Avenue  in  the  grand  review! 
Those  veterans  were  the  acme  of  soldiers,  not 
only  for  America,  but  for  the  world.  They  had 
become  soldiers  in  the  only  way,  through  sacri- 
fice and  struggle. 

Let  the  young  American  be  proud  indeed  as  he 
dons  the  United  States  uniform  for  the  first  time. 
There  is  no  greater  honor  for  a  man  than  the 
wearing  of  his  country's  uniform  in  time  of  war. 
Whether  he  is  a  general  or  a  private,  that  honor 
is  the  same.  As  it  is  in  the  Articles  of  Faith 
of  the  Japanese  soldier,  "All  soldiers  must  re- 
member that  they  are  associated  in  a  great  and 
honorable  service,  and  that  to  serve  worthily, 
in  the  station  in  which  each  is  placed,  is  an  honor 
in  which  the  private  participates  as  fully  as  the 
general." 

The  young  man  who  has  Just  entered  the  army 
has  entered  upon  a  career  of  limitless  possibil- 
ities. In  the  army,  just  as  in  civil  life,  there  is 
always  an  ideal,  and  no  matter  to  what  excel- 
lence one  may  attain,  there  is  still  something 
better  ahead.     Colonel  Henderson,  in  his  Life  of 

219 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

Stonewall  Jackson,  remarks,  "If  Napoleon  him- 
self, more  highly  endowed  with  every  military 
attribute  than  any  other  general  of  the  Christian 
era,  thought  it  necessary  to  teach  himself  this 
business  by  incessant  study,  how  much  more  is 
such  study  necessary  for  ordinary  men." 

A  soldier  is  not  a  parrot  or  an  automaton. 
Many  a  recruit  has  clipped  the  wings  of  his 
career  by  accepting  this  fallacy.  An  artillery 
officer  in  America  with  the  French  Mission  said 
that  he  had  been  away  from  France  for  three 
weeks,  and  that  he  had  so  lost  touch  with  the 
situation  that  he  was  out  of  date.  Let  that  be  a 
warning  to  those  who  think  that  military  lessons 
are  easy.  "Still  learning,"  was  the  motto  of 
Lord  Roberts's  life,  and  it  may  well  be  taken 
by  every  young  recruit. 

The  famous  fighting  family  of  Grenfells,  who 
have  lost  four  sons  in  the  war,  have  always  ap- 
pealed to  me  as  ideal  soldiers.  Rivy  and 
Francis  were  twin  brothers  in  the  Ninth  Lancers. 
They  were  two  of  the  finest  polo-players  in  the 
world,  men  of  perfect  physique  and  of  hardest 
physical  training.  They  were  possessed  of  keen 
minds,  and  no  post-graduate  student  at  Harvard, 
working  for  his  doctor's  degree  in  philosophy, 
was  more  assiduous  than  these  two  officers  in 
their  study  of  military  science.     Above  all,  they 

220 


THE  STUFF  THAT  MAKES  A  SOLDIER 

were  men  of  splendid  spirit.  For  years,  in 
season  and  out,  they  were  striving  to  be  good 
soldiers,  to  be  ready  when  their  country  needed 
them. 

It  was  because  of  men  like  the  Grenfells  that 
the  Old  Contemptibles  were  able  to  stand  against 
overwhelming  odds.  Capt.  Rivy  Grenfell  and 
Capt.  Francis  Grenfell,  V.C.,  are  both  dead,  but 
their  example  remains  a  priceless  ideal  for  the 
young  soldiers  that  come  after. 

The  sergeant-major,  the  colonel,  the  adjutant, 
and  all  those  in  authority  at  the  training-depot, 
have  a  high  ideal  for  the  young  recruit.  But  he 
himself  must  awaken  and  cherish  that  same  ideal 
for  himself  and  toil  and  strive  unceasingly  toward 
its  attainment. 

If  the  young  recruit  has  the  right  stuff  in  him, 
the  days  and  months  in  the  training-depot  will 
work  wonders  with  him.  Within  a  short  period 
of  time  the  moon-faced  youth  who  ambled  un- 
der the  barrack  gate  will  be  passing  out  a  new 
and  finer  man.  Clean  and  smart  in  appearance, 
keen  and  alert  in  mind,  strong  and  agile  in  body, 
he  passes  with  all  the  promise  of  some  day  being 
truly  worthy  of  the  high  name  of  his  profession. 

Only  one  type  of  man  is  impossible  in  the  army, 
and  that  is  the  man  who  can't  obey;  such  a  one 
invariably  passes  through  defaulters'  parades,  and 

221 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

cells,  out  through  the  back  door.  Let  the  young 
recruit  recognize  at  the  start  that  the  army  is 
based  on  authority,  and  that  discipline  is  the  bed- 
rock of  soldiering. 

In  the  army  one  must  not  be  thinking  about 
his  rights;  he  must  be  concerned  about  his  duty. 
We  have  had  too  much  prating  about  "rights" 
in  this  country,  by  all  kinds  of  indiscriminate 
foreigners,  who  at  the  same  time  have  no  sense 
of  obligation  to  the  country.  I  heard  a  man 
from  southeastern  Europe,  in  a  New  York  hotel 
at  the  time  of  registration,  protesting  loudly 
against  the  Government  requiring  him  to  register. 
"It  is  an  infringement  of  my  rights,"  he  declared. 

"Might  I  remind  you,"  I  answered,  "that 
while  your  country's  rights  are  at  stake  your 
rights  are  in  abeyance?"  The  country's  rights 
must  be  assured  or  there  can  be  no  such  thing  as 
rights  for  the  individual. 

"The  secret  of  an  army's  moral  force  is  that," 
in  Cromwell's  words,  "all  ranks  shall  know  what 
they  are  fighting  for  and  love  what  they  know." 
Let  every  American  soldier,  then,  be  imbued  with 
a  full  knowledge  of  the  cause  for  which  he  is 
fighting;  let  him  realize  in  his  deepest  soul  that 
it  is  the  rights  and  liberties  of  his  country  for 
which  he  is  at  war. 

In  the  army  self-abnegation  rules,  the  individ- 

222 


THE   STUFF  THAT  MAKES  A   SOLDIER 

ual  is  lost  in  a  greater  whole,  the  sole  object  of 
concern  is  the  welfare  and  glory  of  the  regiment. 
One  may  not  be  called  upon  to  sacrifice  his  life 
for  his  country,  but  every  day  in  the  service  he 
will  be  called  upon  to  sacrifice  himself.  If  he 
understands  the  spirit  of  the  game  he  will  do 
this  gladly. 

Discipline  is  a  stumbling-block  to  many  a 
young  recruit.  Instinctively  he  finds  himself 
inveighing  against  it. 

I  heard  it  at  Plattsburg  recently,  and  I  have 
heard  it  at  all  of  our  training-camps:  "They 
are  making  me  into  a  machine,"  he  protests. 
"Why  must  I  do  this  foolish  drill  so  often?" 
"Why  can't  I  go  outside  the  lines  when  I  have 
nothing  else  to  do?"  "Why  must  I  waste  hours 
standing  at  attention,  like  a  statue?"  "Why 
must  I  take  orders  from  an  empty-headed  cor- 
poral?" "Why  can't  I  use  my  brains?"  These 
are  a  few  of  the  questions  that  leap  to  the  tongue 
of  the  young  recruit. 

Discipline  means  the  loss  of  self  for  the  sake 
of  a  greater  self,  so  that  thousands  of  men 
may  be  brought  together  and  directed  as  one 
man  for  the  accomplishment  of  a  single  purpose. 
It  is  manifested  by  immediate,  unquestioning, 
and  instinctive  obedience  to  every  order  from  a 
higher  command.    The  sentry  who  stood  im- 

223 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

movable  at  the  post  of  duty  in  Pompeii  has  be- 
come an  example  of  devotion  to  duty  throughout 
the  ages.  But  he  has  nothing  on  many  a  sentry 
in  France  to-day.  When  the  deep  rumblings 
under  the  earth  give  warning  that  a  mine  may 
explode  any  minute  under  the  trench  the  order 
is  given  to  retire.  All  run  for  their  lives  through 
the  communicating  trenches.  But  the  sentries 
allotted  to  the  post  stand  firm,  with  their  faces 
to  the  foe.  Though  the  earth  be  removed,  their 
duty  remains. 

I  remember  passing  in  a  motor-car  at  full 
speed  a  place  known  as  Suicide  Corner,  just  out- 
side of  Ypres,  during  the  first  gas  attack.  The 
whole  civil  population  was  in  a  panic,  fleeing  from 
the  city.  Across  Suicide  Corner  the  shells  were 
raining.  A  more  unhealthy  place  could  not  be 
imagined  in  all  that  terrible  landscape.  Yet 
there,  at  that  awful  corner,  immovable  and  im- 
perturbable, stood  a  sentry  from  the  Sixteenth 
Battalion,  the  Canadian-Scottish.  Earth  and 
sky  could  crash  about  him,  but  his  soldier  calm 
remained.  That  brave  and  fleeting  picture  was 
a  supreme  example  of  discipline. 

I  was  converted  to  discipline  for  all  time  in 
observing  the  wonders  which  it  wrought  in  my 
own  division,  the  First  Canadians.  Under  my 
own  eyes,  through  discipline,  I  saw  this  division 

224 


THE  STUFF  THAT  MAKES  A  SOLDIER 

transformed  from  an  incorrigible  mob  into  one 
of  the  most  splendid  fighting  forces  of  the  war. 

The  British  regulars  didn't  think  much  of  us 
when  we  first  arrived  in  England.  In  those 
days  we  wore  khaki,  but  most  of  us  were  not 
soldiers;  we  were  merely  a  mob  of  civilians  in 
uniform. 

The  common  stricture  uttered  against  us 
everywhere  was,  "The  Canadians  are  all  right, 
but  they  lack  discipline."  Certainly  we  did. 
One  could  not  gather  a  heterogeneous  mass  of 
lawyers,  farmers,  prospectors,  clerks,  ranchmen, 
doctors,  artisans,  and  business  men,  and  throw 
them  together,  and  get  a  disciplined  unit  out  of 
this  hodge-podge  overnight. 

All  the  respectable  and  classic  officers  of  old 
England  took  a  knock  at  us  in  those  days.  Our 
lack  of  discipline  was  a  scandal  in  their  eyes. 
But  they  were  game  sports,  and  they  gave  us 
credit  for  what  we  possessed  and  hoped  for  better 
things. 

One  fair-minded  English  officer  said,  "The 
Canadians  may  lack  discipline,  but,  by  Gad! 
they've  got  gyp,  and  in  time  they  will  have 
discipline,  too."  His  prophecy  came  true.  A 
few  months  later  in  France  the  shattered  rem- 
nant of  the  First  Canadians  were  retiring  from 
one  of  the  greatest  battles  of  the  war.     A  de- 

*5  225 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

tachment  of  English  regulars  who  were  rushing 
forward  to  replace  them  cheered  the  Canadians 
as  they  passed;  some  of  them  even  amid  the 
bursting  shells  waved  their  caps  and  yelled, 
"Bravo,  Canadians!"  This  was  the  first  inti- 
mation that  this  shattered  remnant  had  that 
they  had  "saved  the  day." 

They  saved  the  day  at  Ypres,  and  they  were 
cheered  by  those  old  regulars  rushing  on  toward 
death,  because  at  last  they  had  become  true 
soldiers;  every  man  had  added  discipline  to  that 
which  the  English  call  "gyp."  Therefore  the 
Canadian  line  remained  unbroken. 

To-day  the  First  Canadian  Division  is  known 
as  one  of  the  finest  fighting  divisions  on  the 
western  front.  They  have  won  that  proud  title 
because  they  are  one  of  the  best  disciplined 
divisions  in  the  army. 

The  making  of  a  soldier  begins^on  the  parade- 
square,  but  the  last  and  hardest  experiences  come 
on  the  firing-line.  The  lessons  learned  in  train- 
ing, the  drill  of  the  parade-square,  the  theories 
of  maneuvers,  and  all  the  requirements  of  peace 
soldiering,  grow  pale  before  those  sterner  lessons 
of  the  real  front. 

War  plunges  one  into  a  vortex  of  intensest  ac- 
tion. There  is  many  a  second  lieutenant  in 
France  to-day,  a  callow  youth  in  appearance, 

226 


THE  STUFF  THAT  MAKES  A  SOLDIER 

but  a  wise,  resourceful  iron  soldier  underneath. 
A  few  months  of  real  campaigning  have  accom- 
plished for  mere  youngsters  what  in  peace  would 
have  required  long  years. 

If  ever  there  was  a  war  in  history  that  de- 
manded the  stuff  that  makes  a  soldier  it  is  the 
present  campaign.  A  man  without  an  iron  con- 
stitution would  soon  cave  in  from  the  sleepless 
vigils  in  the  trenches.  The  fighting  in  Flanders 
requires  a  man  to  carry  on  until  his  last  ounce  of 
energy  is  exhausted,  and  after  that  still  to  carry 
on. 

General  Kleber,  when  his  men,  overcome  by 
fatigue,  refused  to  move  a  step  farther,  called 
them  cowards.  As  they  protested  that  they  were 
at  any  rate  always  brave  in  a  fight  he  replied: 
"Yes,  you  are  brave  men,  but  you  are  not 
soldiers.  To  be  a  soldier  is  not  to  eat  when  you 
are  hungry,  not  to  drink  when  you  are  thirsty, 
and  to  carry  your  comrade  when  you  cannot 
drag  yourself  along."  Such  are  the  soldiers  re- 
quired in  Flanders  to-day. 

"I  don't  see  how  you  stand  up  against  the 
strain  of  the  trenches!"  exclaims  every  one  at 
home.  If  the  soldiers  were  made  of  the  same  stuff 
as  the  sybaritic  ones  at  home,  they  would  not 
stand  up  against  it  for  one  day. 

But  no  matter  how  soft  the  raw  material  may 

227 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

be,  when  it  enters  the  army,  it  is  hammered  and 
pounded  and  wrought  until  at  last  the  human 
material  is  of  the  hardest  steel.  According  to  a 
common  saying,  "If  a  man  can  stand  the  first 
month  in  the  army,  he  can  stand  the  whole  show." 

If  treated  rationally,  the  human  machine  is  a 
standing  miracle  of  endurance.  We  read  of  the 
hardship  of  Arctic  explorers,  when  it  seems  in- 
credible that  men  born  in  our  own  weak  flesh 
could  bear  such  ardors.  The  story  of  Captain 
Scott's  gallant  battlings  toward  the  South  Pole 
reads  like  a  tale  of  superman.  In  point  of  en- 
durance our  soldiers  in  the  trenches  are  no  less 
supermen.  But  with  time  and  right  training  all 
things  are  possible.  What  applies  in  regard  to 
physical  hardship  is  true  in  a  greater  degree  in 
regard  to  nervous  and  mental  strain. 

Any  man  coming  under  shell-fire  for  the  first 
time  is  in  a  blue  funk,  unless  he  enjoys  a  blissful 
obtuseness. 

"Colonel,"  said  a  major  in  the  hot  fire  for  the 
first  time,  "you  are  afraid.     I  see  you  tremble." 

"Yes,"  replied  the  colonel,  "and  if  you  were  as 
afraid  as  I  am,  you  would  run  away." 

Despite  this  natural  fear,  it  is  possible  for 
soldiers  to  become  acclimated  to  danger  and 
shell-fire,  just  as  it  is  possible  for  Arctic  ex- 
plorers to  become  acclimated  to  extreme  cold, 

gga 


THE  STUFF  THAT  MAKES  A  SOLDIER 

If  one  of  our  soft  young  men  from  a  city  office 
were  forced  out  onto  a  grueling  march  of  several 
days,  with  open  bivouac  in  perishing  winter 
weather,  he  would  soon  give  in  from  exhaustion 
and  exposure.  If  he  were  suddenly  dropped 
from  his  quiet  room  into  the  hell  of  the  front 
line,  his  heart  would  stop  beating  from  sheer 
shock. 

Sometimes  when  new  drafts  arrive  in  the  line 
they  encounter  a  particularly  bad  time  on  their 
first  day.  Perhaps  one  is  blown  up  by  a  shell 
and  is  found  dead  without  a  mark  on  his  body. 
The  shock  was  too  great,  and  his  resistance 
powers  were  not  yet  keyed  up  to  the  demand. 
While  an  old-timer  might  be  blown  up  and  come 
down  grinning,  an  unseasoned  soldier  would  come 
down  stark  and  cold. 

My  old  company  commander  in  1914,  who  is 
now  serving  his  third  year  in  France,  is  for  me 
the  truest  embodiment  of  the  stuff  that  makes  a 
soldier.  He  was  a  captain  when  I  first  met  him, 
though  he  is  far  beyond  that  rank  to-day. 

It  was  in  August,  1914,  that  I  first  met  the 
captain.  He  was  standing  in  front  of  his  tent 
speaking  to  one  of  his  platoon  commanders. 
"Look  't  here,  young  feller,"  he  was  saying,  "I 
don't  want  so  much  talk  out  of  you  about  the  dif- 
ference between  an  officer  and  a  man.    I  tell 

229 


THE   REAL    FRONT 

you  that  we  are  all  soldiers,  and  if  we  deserve  it, 
'soldier'  is  the  highest  term  that  can  be  applied 
to  any  of  us,  irrespective  of  rank." 

I  looked  at  the  captain  as  he  stood  there  with 
his  trim  figure.  His  legs  were  thin,  his  waist 
was  lean,  his  shoulders  were  square,  and  his 
head  was  carried  high.  The  small  pointed  mus- 
tache and  the  swagger-stick  under  his  arm  gave 
the  finishing  touch  of  dash  to  his  soldierly  figure. 
When  off  duty  our  company  commander  was 
what  is  technically  known  in  the  cavalry  as  a 
"regular  blood."  He  was  a  darling  of  the  ladies, 
and  a  ringleader  in  every  wildest  jamboree. 

But  whatever  he  was  in  his  gay  moments,  with 
all  his  dashing  exuberance  of  spirit,  he  was 
austere  and  cold  as  an  iceberg  when  he  stood 
before  his  company  on  parade.  At  the  very  be- 
ginning the  captain  appealed  to  me  as  an  ideal 
soldier.  But  with  Lord  Roberts  his  motto  was, 
"Still  learning."  Some  veterans  of  other  wars 
thought  that  they  knew  it  all  at  the  start.  Not 
so  with  the  captain.  "I'll  tell  you,  boys,"  he 
would  say,  "we're  going  in  for  classic  fighting 
now.  And  we've  got  to  be  trained  to  the  minute. 
South  Africa  was  a  ragtime  show  to  what  we 
will  be  up  against  in  the  Germans." 

If  this  officer  was  my  ideal  in  August,  1914, 
how  much  more  was  he  the  embodiment  of  the 

230 


THE  STUFF  THAT  MAKES  A  SOLDIER 

stuff  that  makes  a  soldier  when  I  last  beheld 
him,  heading  his  regiment  in  column  of  route, 
on  one  of  the  roads  that  lead  toward  the  Sorame. 
The  swagger-stick  was  missing,  his  mustache  was 
not  trimmed  as  in  old  days,  but  his  manner  was 
still  dashing  and  debonair.  Shining  buttons 
and  accouterments  still  spoke  of  the  old-time 
pride  of  person.  In  his  eye  there  was  a  calm 
and  serene  look,  as  though  through  long  nights 
of  vigil  in  the  trenches  he  had  worshiped  at 
the  shrine  of  Buddha.  The  volatile  and  scintil- 
lating glance,  the  delight  of  the  ladies  on  the 
Dufferin  Terrace,  was  gone.  In  its  place  was  an 
expression  of  calm  and  imperturbability.  As  I 
looked  upon  the  eyes  of  my  old  friend  I  thought 
of  all  that  they  had  seen  since  last  we  met,  and 
was  thrilled,  for  shining  through  those  eyes  I  saw 
the  soldierly  spirit,  the  spirit  which  is  the  greatest 
glory  of  our  time. 

The  development  of  a  soldierly  spirit  should  be 
the  end  of  all  training;  and  it  will  be  the  highest 
outcome  of  all  campaigning.  It  is  the  possession 
of  this  quality  that  enables  ten  men  to  beat  a 
hundred,  and  fifty  to  rule  a  thousand.  The  story 
of  the  British  conquest  of  India,  and  of  Scott's 
campaign  in  Mexico,  are  examples  of  how  moral 
force  may  triumph  over  overwhelming  numbers. 
A  soldierly  spirit  enables  a  man  to  be  cheerful  in 


231 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

privation,  to  put  faith  in  his  superiors,  to  practise 
necessary  self-confidence  and  self-restraint,  to 
act  with  initiative  amidst  unforeseen  dangers, 
and  to  obey  all  orders  with  courage  and  disregard 
of  self. 

It  was  the  soldierly  spirit  that  permeated  Jack- 
son's infantry  at  Chancellorsville,  that  spirit  held 
the  Ypres  salient  in  1914  when  we  were  one  to 
ten.  Lord  Kavanaugh's  Household  Cavalry 
Brigade  stood  alone  and  unbroken  against  vast 
hordes  of  Germans  on  Mennin  Ridge  because 
every  trooper  of  the  Household  Cavalry  was 
possessed  of  a  soldierly  spirit.  This  spirit  has 
characterized  all  Canada's  New  World  troops 
since  the  beginning. 


XIV 

NEW   WORLD  TROOPS   IN   AN   OLD   WORLD   WAR 

rTiHE  United  States  has  entered  the  World 
*■  War  with  becoming  modesty.  The  period 
of  her  neutrality  was  the  period  of  her  probation. 
During  the  time  when  she  was  trying  to  keep  out 
of  the  war  her  ears  were  filled  with  the  recrimina- 
tions and  reproaches  of  those  more  ardent  citizens 
who  were  for  instant  participation.  During  all 
this  period  the  magnitude  of  the  task  was  being 
fully  revealed  to  her.  At  last  in  deadly  earnest, 
and  shorn  of  all  illusions  and  false  hopes,  the 
United  States  has  entered  the  struggle. 

No  nation  has  entered  the  war  with  a  deeper 
seriousness,  and  with  a  more  becoming  humility. 
Out  of  the  period  of  her  probation  the  United 
States  has  emerged  with  a  contrite  heart. 
Despite  the  tendency  of  the  New  World  for  big 
talk,  no  bluster  or  jingoism  is  heard  in  the 
country  to-day. 

The  tendency  has  been  to  depreciate,  rather 
than  to  expatiate  on,  the  influence  of  American 

233 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

intervention.  And  yet  America's  entrance  into 
the  struggle  will  stand  out  as  the  greatest  event 
in  the  history  of  the  war.  Mr.  Asquith,  speaking 
in  the  House  of  Commons,  said,  "I  doubt  whether 
even  now  the  world  realizes  the  full  significance 
of  the  step  which  America  has  taken." 

American  intervention  marks  an  epoch  in 
world  history.  Here  for  the  first  time  the  Old 
World  and  the  New  are  joined  together  in  a  com- 
mon struggle  on  a  common  battle-field. 

The  "splendid  isolation  policy,"  the  foreign 
policy  of  the  United  States  since  its  birth,  has 
been  abandoned.  She  has  now  definitely  entered 
the  arena  of  world  politics,  and  is  destined  to  be- 
come a  new  force  in  the  sphere  of  international 
relations. 

America  planned  to  keep  out  of  all  entangling 
alliances  with  Europe.  But  now,  on  account  of 
the  solidarity  of  mankind  in  the  struggle  for 
freedom,  America  has  plunged  into  the  vortex  of 
world  politics,  and  as  war  is  the  present  policy 
of  world  politics,  she  has  plunged  into  the  vortex 
of  world  war. 

Europe  sees  with  awe  the  great  New  World 
across  the  water  preparing  to  join  her  in  the 
strife.  Britain,  the  Old  Gray  Mother  of  the 
English-speaking  race,  beholds  with  tears  of  glad- 
ness a  long-lost  daughter  joining  hands  again. 

234 


NEW  WORLD  TROOPS  IN  OLD  WORLD  WAR 

Thanks  to  the  good  offices  of  the  Kaiser,  kinsfolk 
have  come  together.  William  not  only  obligingly 
cemented  the  British  Commonwealth,  home- 
land and  Colonies,  but  he  has  added  America  to 
that  English-speaking  union,  which  must  ever 
make  for  liberty  and  peace  on  earth. 

The  London  Times  referred  to  the  arrival  of 
General  Pershing's  men  as  the  "return  of  the 
Pilgrims."  It  was  a  happy  allusion,  for  as  the 
party  of  the  Mayflower  crossed  to  Plymouth  Rock 
in  quest  of  liberty,  so  General  Pershing's  men 
have  recrossed  the  ocean  in  the  same  pursuit. 

Last  year  in  the  trenches  in  front  of  Ypres  I 
met  one  Major  Stewart,  who  had  formerly  been 
an  officer  in  the  American  Regular  Army.  It 
was  at  the  time  of  Sanctuary  Wood  battle,  when 
the  Canadians  had  lost  heavily.  We  fell  to  dis- 
cussing the  reasons  why  he,  an  American,  was  in 
what  seemed  to  be  another's  quarrel. 

"I  came,"  said  Major  Stewart,  simply,  "be- 
cause I  had  to  come.  You  were  fighting  for 
liberty,  for  my  liberty  as  well  as  yours,  and  I 
couldn't  stand  the  idea  of  having  some  one 
else  purchasing  my  liberty  for  me." 

At  that  time  the  bloodiest  fighting  was  in 
progress,  the  Canadians  having  lost  ground, 
which,  according  to  their  tradition,  had  to  be 
regained.     Two  days  later  the  Seventh  Battalion, 

235 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

lying  next  to  Major  Stewart's,  the  Tenth,  were 
going  over  the  top.  They  had  lost  all  their 
senior  officers,  and  Major  Stewart  volunteered  to 
lead  them  over.  Just  as  he  was  leading  the 
charge  over  the  parapet  he  was  wounded  in  the 
foot,  and  was  carried  back  into  the  trench,  where 
a  few  moments  later  he  was  killed  by  another 
shell. 

The  words  and  heroic  example  of  that  gallant 
officer  of  the  American  Regulars,  who  fell  with  us, 
remain  with  me  a  token  of  the  best  spirit  of  this 
New  World. 

New  armies  are  being  born  in  America  to-day 
with  the  same  crusading  spirit  of  my  friend, 
Major  Stewart.  I  have  visited  Plattsburg  Camp. 
I  have  inspected  several  of  the  training  regiments, 
and  I  have  heard  the  heart-beat  of  multitudes  of 
American  young  men,  and  I  say  that  what 
Canada  has  done  the  United  States  will  do.  If 
the  war  drags  on,  as  it  gives  evidences  of  doing, 
this  country  will  be  able  to  render  vaster  and 
more  decisive  service  than  smaller  Canada  could 
think  of  rendering. 

General  Bell  said  at  Madison  Square  Garden, 
"The  United  States  is  proud  of  Canada,  because 
Canada  is  American,  and  we  hope  some  day  that 
Canada  will  be  proud  of  the  United  States,  be- 
cause   the    United    States    is    American."     As 

236 


NEW  WORLD  TROOPS  IN  OLD  WORLD  WAR 

Canadians  we  know  that  Canada  shall  yet  be 
proud  of  the  service  rendered  by  the  great  nation 
that  shares  with  her  the  heritage  of  the  New 
World. 

Nothing  could  surpass  the  earnestness  of  this 
country  as  she  enters  upon  the  war.  The  prepa- 
ration for  the  Civil  War  was  a  half-hearted  thing 
to  the  preparation  which  the  country  is  making 
for  this  struggle.  If  Walt  Whitman  was  so 
moved  by  the  sight  of  the  few  thousands  that 
rallied  from  New  York  at  the  beginning  of  the 
Civil  War,  what  would  he  say  now,  could  he  see 
a  million  men  answering  the  call  instantly  that 
war  is  declared? 

An  old  veteran  whom  I  met  at  the  Union 
League  Club  said  to  me,  "The  enthusiasm  and 
spirit  with  which  we  have  entered  this  war  far 
exceed  the  spirit  with  which  we  began  in 
sixty-one." 

Many  questions  arise  as  we  regard  the  New 
World  preparing  for  the  struggle.  How  will  the 
New  World  troops  do  on  the  classic  battle-fields 
of  Europe?  These  will  not  be  guerrilla  fights, 
but  battles  directed  by  profound  masters  of 
strategy  and  military  science.  Will  our  generals 
be  adequate  to  such  tests?  How  will  the  Amer- 
ican contribution  affect  the  struggle  in  Europe, 
as  to  its  methods,  and  as  to  its  ultimate  issue? 

237 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

And  how  will  the  Old  World  itself  affect  America? 
These  are  some  of  the  many  questions  that  arise 
in  our  minds  at  this  moment. 

In  reply  to  questions  that  arise,  it  may  be 
safely  averred  at  the  start  that  the  necessary 
men  will  be  forthcoming.  In  the  last  analysis, 
the  war  will  be  won  by  men,  more  men,  and  yet 
more  men.  It  should  always  be  borne  in  mind 
that  the  fighting-men  on  the  firing-line,  beyond 
aeroplanes  and  inventions  and  all  else,  will  be 
the  decisive  factor. 

The  United  States  is  rightly  preparing  for  a 
long  war.  According  to  official  despatches  from 
Washington,  "No  army  officer  who  is  acquainted 
with  the  real  situation  expects  the  war  to  end 
until  the  United  States  has  sent  at  least  one 
million  men  to  the  firing-line,  and  perhaps  two 
millions  may  be  needed." 

There  should  be  no  cause  for  undue  worry  as 
to  the  discovering  of  proper  leadership  for  the 
higher  commands.  The  crisis  of  the  American 
Civil  War  brought  forth  some  of  the  greatest 
masters  of  strategy  and  military  science  of  all 
time.  An  officer  in  the  English  Staff  College 
to-day  who  is  a  candidate  for  advancement  is 
required  to  pass  an  examination  in  Colonel 
Henderson's  Life  of  Stonewall  Jackson.  That 
distinguished  graduate  of  West  Point  who  fell  at 

S38 


NEW  WORLD  TROOPS  IN  OLD  WORLD  WAR 

Chancellorsville  has  become  a  mentor  in  the 
military  schools  of  Europe. 

Prof.  William  James,  in  his  address  on  "The 
Energies  of  Man,"  says,  "A  new  position  of  re- 
sponsibility will  usually  show  a  man  to  be  a  far 
stronger  creature  than  was  supposed."  Crom- 
well's and  Grant's  careers  are  stock  examples  of 
how  war  will  wake  a  man  up. 

Canada  abounds  with  such  examples.  Major- 
General  Sir  Arthur  Currie,  C.B.,  K.C.M.G., 
who  now  commands  the  Canadian  Corps,  was  at 
the  beginning  of  the  war  an  unknown  real-estate 
broker  in  British  Columbia.  Major-General  Sir 
R.  E.  W.  Turner,  V.C.,  C.B.,  D.S.O.,  K.C.M.G., 
was  quietly  conducting  a  wholesale  grocery  busi- 
ness in  Quebec  in  the  summer  of  1914.  To-day, 
after  a  brilliant  career  in  France,  he  represents 
the  Canadians  at  the  War  Office.  As  in  the 
Civil  War,  so  in  this  present  crisis,  the  United 
States  may  see  a  galaxy  of  brilliant  generals 
shine  forth  again  on  the  pages  of  her  history. 

The  whole  future  of  Europe  and  America  will 
be  changed  because  of  their  present  union  in  this 
war.  Each  side  will  make  its  contribution  to  the 
other,  and  when  the  war  is  over  the  Old  World 
will  be  newer,  and  the  New  World  will  be  older, 
because  we  have  fought  together. 

America   is  not  going  "over  there"  to   ape 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

Old  World  traditions.  She  will  go  with  the 
freshness  of  her  own  new  life.  You  cannot  pour 
new  wine  into  old  bottles,  and  you  cannot  make 
New  World  troops  into  Old  World  soldiers. 
After  a  hard  experience  England  has  learned  this 
lesson  from  her  Colonial  troops.  At  the  begin- 
ning the  regulation  automatic  drill  sergeant 
wanted  to  make  all  the  Colonials  according  to 
the  prescribed  pattern  of  Tommy  Atkins.  But 
the  free  and  breezy  lads  from  overseas,  unlike  the 
Billingsgate  loafer,  were  not  in  the  army  for  a 
shilling  a  day,  and  they  refused  to  be  hammered 
into  automatons. 

Some  even  went  so  far  as  to  blast  the  most 
time-honored  traditions  of  the  service.  A  big 
Australian  private  was  walking  through  London 
after  the  Dardanelles  show.  He  had  been 
through  that  baptism  of  hell,  and  with  his  sleeves 
rolled  up,  as  the  Anzacs  love  to  wear  them,  he 
sauntered  along  the  Strand,  an  ideal  picture  of  a 
rough-and-ready  Colonial  who  cared  not  one 
whit  for  ceremony,  but  who  could  be  depended 
upon  for  righting. 

He  encountered  a  pink-faced  English  youth, 
who  had  just  got  his  commission,  one  of  the 
Percival  or  Cuthbert  type,  whom  we  refer  to  in 
the  army  as  "poodle-fakers."  The  young  one, 
with  a  due  sense  of  his  dignity,  held  up  the  big 

240 


NEW  WORLD  TROOPS  IN  OLD  WORLD  WAR 

Australian  private  for  not  saluting  him.  "Don't 
you  know  an  hofficer  when  you  see  'im?"  he 
exclaimed.  The  Anzac  drew  himself  to  his  full 
height  and,  bending,  clapped  the  youth  with  a 
mighty  hand,  announcing,  "Sonny,  you  trot 
along  home  and  tell  your  mother  that  you've 
seen  a  real,  live  soldier!" 

Unconventionality  will  be  one  of  the  charac- 
teristics of  the  New  World  troops.  This  country 
does  not  take  kindly  to  forms  and  ceremonies. 
I  remember  once,  while  dining  at  the  Hotel 
Folkestone  in  Boulogne,  there  entered  the  dining- 
room  a  tall,  commanding  figure  in  the  uniform 
of  first  lieutenant.  What  caused  every  one  to 
look  at  him  was  not  merely  his  imperious  figure, 
but  a  full-grown  beard  which  adorned  his  face, 
well  trimmed  but  prolific. 

A  young  English  officer  seated  at  my  table 
nearly  collapsed.  According  to  King's  Regula- 
tions and  Orders  it  was  required  that  every  of- 
ficer and  man  should  "shave  all  except  the  upper 
lip,"  which  is  responsible  for  the  regulation  Eng- 
lish army  mustache. 

The  cause  of  this  flutter  of  excitement  in  the 
dining-hall  turned  out  to  be  a  Western  American, 
now  an  officer  with  the  Canadians,  who  had 
formerly  served  in  the  Philippines.  Later  I  had 
the  pleasure  of  meeting  this  bearded  subaltern, 

16  241 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

and  found  him  to  be  a  real  Westerner,  who,  in  his 
own  phrase,  was  an  old-stager,  and  didn't  give 
a  whoop  in  hell  for  any  inane  convention.  In 
speaking  of  his  beard  he  said,  jocularly,  "If  his 
Majesty  the  King  can  wear  a  beard,  I  see  no 
reason  why  I,  a  true  American,  fighting  in  his 
forces,  may  not  be  permitted  to  emulate  his 
Majesty  to  that  extent." 

I  found  in  a  deeper  confidence  of  friendship 
that  the  reason  why  this  officer  wore  a  beard 
was  to  hide  an  ugly  gash  across  the  face,  which 
was  the  result  of  a  wound  received  in  the  Philip- 
pines. I  may  add  that  this  breezy  Westerner 
has  since  become  a  major  in  our  forces.  He 
lost  nothing  by  his  unconventionality,  because 
it  was  sincere,  a  mark  of  greatness  rather 
than  a  weakness.  I  know  of  no  subaltern  who 
commanded  more  respect  than  this  same  eccen- 
tric Californian. 

A  story  is  told  of  how  one  time  he  was  on  his 
way  up  to  the  trenches;  his  rank  badges  were 
hidden  by  his  Burberry  rain-proof;  striding  along 
in  his  imperious  way,  he  passed  a  sentry,  who  gave 
him  the  field-officer's  salute.  A  few  moments 
later  a  friend,  following  there,  inquired,  "Have 
you  seen  a  platoon  commander  pass  here  re- 
cently?" "No,"  said  the  sentry,  "but  a  general 
with  a  beard  went  by  a  minute  ago."     The  gen- 

242 


NEW  WORLD  TROOPS  IN  OLD  WORLD  WAR 

eral  with  the  beard  was  none  other  than  our  un- 
conventional Calif  ornian. 

This  unconventionally  will  distinguish  Amer- 
ican troops  in  France.  I  thought  of  this  the 
other  day  as  I  accompanied  Colonel  Wolf  around 
Plattsburg  Camp.  On  entering  the  comman- 
dant's office,  I,  as  a  British  officer,  was  imme- 
diately struck  with  the  lack  of  ostentation  and 
military  display.  Throughout  the  entire  camp 
I  observed  that  the  same  informality  prevailed. 
The  basis  of  the  camp  was  iron  discipline,  the 
same  as  at  Aldershot,  only  the  old-time  trappings 
were  gone.  The  boys  at  Plattsburg,  just  like  the 
Anzacs,  represent  a  soldiery  with  its  sleeves 
rolled  up.  The  historian  of  Grant's  campaign 
in  the  Wilderness  said,  "There  was  none  of  the 
pomp  and  parade  of  war,  only  its  horrible 
butchery."  The  same  pronouncement  will  apply 
to  the  Americans  in  this  war. 

W^hat  the  Colonials  have  already  done  is  a 
presage  of  what  we  may  yet  expect  from  the 
Americans.  The  Canadians,  Australians,  South- 
Africans,  New-Zealanders,  and  Americans  will 
be  blood-brothers  in  the  field.  All  are  New 
World  troops,  with  the  same  restless  and  im- 
patient spirit. 

The  First  Australian  Division  last  year  took 
over  a  new  portion  of  the  line  in  France,  known 

243 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

as  Plug  Street.  This  was  their  initiation  into 
war  on  the  western  front,  and  the  portion  of  the 
line  assigned  to  them  was  therefore  comparatively 
easy.  Here  on  Plug  Street  many  of  Britain's  old 
divisions  got  their  first  taste  of  trench  warfare 
in  comparatively  easy  stages. 

When  the  Anzacs  arrived  Plug  Street  was 
synonymous  for  "Easy  Street,"  but  not  for  long. 
On  their  first  night  in  the  line  the  Germans  put 
it  over  the  Anzacs  and  captured  several  Stokes 
guns.  "The  iron  has  entered  our  soul,"  said  a 
great,  brawny-armed  Anzac  captain  whom  I  met 
at  dinner  behind  the  lines  a  little  later.  "But 
we  will  take  it  out  of  these  blankety-blank 
Fritzes  yet.  They  can't  put  it  over  us  for 
good."  How  well  they  kept  their  promise  was 
witnessed  by  the  "little  hell"  that  began  at 
Plug  Street. 

The  Canadians  thought  that  they  had  a  corner 
on  trouble  in  the  bloody  salient  of  Ypres.  But 
often  on  quiet  nights,  between  "stand-to"  and 
"stand-down,"  our  sentries  on  the  rim  of  the  fire- 
trench  would  hear  distant  rumblings.  "What's 
that?"  one  would  exclaim;  then  the  other  would 
wink  knowingly  and  answer,  "Them's  the  An- 
zacs, raisin'  their  own  little  hell  down  on  Plug 
Street."  Before  long  the  sentries  will  have  oc- 
casion in  like  manner  to   wink  and  exclaim, 

m 


NEW  WORLD  TROOPS  IN  OLD  WORLD  WAR 

"Them's  Pershing's  First  Americans,  raisin'  their 
own  little  hell  down  yonder." 

No  matter  how  quiet  that  portion  of  the  line 
may  be  when  Pershing's  men  first  arrive,  they 
may  be  depended  upon  to  start  something  right 
away.  The  proverbial  Yankee  hustle  is  not  only 
a  good  quality  in  business,  it  is  also  a  decisive 
quality  in  war.  Where  we  have  had  a  compara- 
tive deadlock,  and  the  game  is  becoming  a 
stalemate,  the  impatient  and  restless  energy  of 
the  West  will  be  an  acquisition.  Admiral  Mahan 
says:  "War,  once  declared,  must  be  waged  of- 
fensively, aggressively.  The  enemy  must  not  be 
fended  off,  but  smitten  down."  Intense  activity 
is  a  characteristic  of  the  American.  This  charac- 
teristic is  a  desideratum  in  war,  where  there  can 
be  no  respite  and  no  truce.  That  restless,  fever- 
ish, impatient  spirit  that  characterizes  a  crowd  on 
Wall  Street,  which  some  one  has  called  "Newyork - 
itis,"  may  be  hard  on  the  nerves,  but  it  produces 
millionaires,  and  the  same  spirit  in  Flanders  will 
produce  the  discomfiture  of  the  enemy. 

"As  it  was  in  the  beginning,  is  now,  and  ever 
shall  be"  never  was  a  motto  for  the  citizens  of 
the  New  World.  Canada  showed  her  reaction 
against  the  "Let- well-enough-alone"  policy  when 
she  kicked  over  the  traces  and  started  trench - 
raiding.     Up  till  that  time  raids  were  never  heard 

245 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

of.  No  Man's  Land  was  a  forbidden  and  in- 
scrutable country.  When  the  restless  Western- 
ers of  the  Seventh,  Eighth,  and  Tenth  Battalions 
looked  across  No  Man's  Land  it  called  them,  just 
as  the  unknown  woods  and  mountains  of  British 
Columbia  had  called  them.  Old  heads  were 
shaken,  and  serious  faces  looked  askance,  when 
these  wild  Canadians  first  mentioned  raiding. 
But,  thanks  to  these  pioneers,  we  have  a  new 
departure  in  trench  warfare,  and  now  raids  are 
the  regular  order  of  the  day. 

The  Second  Brigade  of  the  First  Canadian 
Division  have  won  for  themselves  the  title 
"Kings  of  No  Man's  Land."  To  them  that 
dread  country  between  the  trenches  is  no  longer 
known  as  No  Man's  Land.  They  call  it  "The 
Dominion  of  Canada."  Canada's  record  for  in- 
novation will  soon  be  shared  by  the  United 
States.  Hindenburg  may  look  for  greater  sur- 
prises than  he  has  yet  known  from  that  section 
of  the  line  held  by  American  troops. 

Most  of  the  great  inventions  of  this  war  are 
the  product  of  the  American  mind.  The  aero- 
plane, the  submarine,  the  machine-gun,  and  the 
howitzer,  have  revolutionized  modern  warfare. 
All  these  inventions  came  from  America.  It  is 
not  unreasonable,  then,  to  suppose  that  the  inven- 
tive mind  of  this  country,  in  reply  to  the  added 

246 


NEW  WORLD  TROOPS  IN  OLD  WORLD  WAR 

need  caused  by  the  country's  own  danger,  will 
bring  forth  new  and  terrible  contrivances  of 
destruction. 

The  War  Department  at  Washington  has 
very  wisely  appointed  a  special  bureau  to  deal 
with  new  inventions.  We  may  safely  predict 
that  this  bureau  will  not  be  one  of  lesser  impor- 
tance in  its  influence  on  winning  the  war. 

It  would  take  the  imagination  of  a  Jules  Verne 
to  even  dare  to  prophesy  some  of  the  hellish  sur- 
prises that  the  New  World  may  let  loose  on  the 
enemy  in  the  near  future.  Some  one  has  sug- 
gested that  the  "Yanks"  will  be  putting  an  elec- 
tric wire  out  in  No  Man's  Land,  charged  with 
ten  thousand  volts,  and  electrocuting  the  Fritzes 
as  they  come  over  on  a  charge.  It  is  a  fruitful 
subject  for  romance,  but  I  shall  not  trust  myself 
on  such  an  infinite  vista.  Suffice  it  that  the 
wizardry  of  the  American  mind  is  fighting  with 
us,  and  perhaps  beyond  our  dreams  and  imagin- 
ings it  may  make  itself  felt  in  the  fight. 

The  Germans  introduced  poison  gas,  liquid  fire, 
and  other  hellish  perversions  of  modern  combat. 
They  also  flung  away  every  rule  of  old-time 
chivalry.  The  Englishman  was  somewhat  slow 
to  awaken  to  the  dirty  play.  Long  after  the 
"Marquis  of  Queensberry  rules"  had  been  aban- 
doned the  idea  of  fighting  fair  was  uppermost  in 

247 


THE   REAL   FRONT 

his  mind.  But  not  so  with  the  Canadians. 
The  minute  the  dirty  work  began  they  were 
ready  to  meet  fire  with  fire.  Fritz  wishes  now 
when  he  meets  us  that  he  had  played  to  the  rules 
of  the  game,  because  in  introducing  dirty  work 
he  has  found  in  the  Colonial  a  "rough-neck" 
who  can  always  do  him  one  better. 

I  know  that  the  Americans  can  be  trusted 
to  take  care  of  themselves  in  a  game  like  this.  I 
often  liken  the  position  of  New  World  troops  in 
this  war  to  a  hockey  match  which  I  saw  once 
between  a  slick  city  team  and  a  country  team 
from  the  backwoods  of  Nova  Scotia.  Thinking 
that  they  had  an  easy  crowd,  the  city  team 
started  in  to  "rough-house."  Before  the  game 
was  over  the  brawny  Nova-Scotians  had  literally 
mopped  up  the  ice  with  the  ones  who  began  the 
dirty  work. 

"That's  what  we  always  plan  to  do  with  a  bad 
actor  like  Fritz,"  I  told  the  boys  at  Plattsburg. 
I  could  almost  hear  their  hearts  thump  a  loud 
Amen  as  they  exclaimed,  "We're  right  there  with 
you,  bo!" 

In  the  instruction  at  Plattsburg  I  was  glad  to 
find  that  they  were  not  teaching  them  any  "rules 
of  the  game."  They  are  going  prepared  for 
rough  and  tumble,  and  I  know  that  they  will  give 
as  good  as  they  get. 

248 


NEW  WORLD  TROOPS  IN  OLD  WORLD  WAR 

The  confidence  with  which  Hindenburg  an- 
nounced that  he  would  mop  up  the  Americans 
reminds  one  of  the  confidence  with  which 
Mrs.  Partington  started  to  mop  up  the  ocean. 
American  intervention  was  at  first  treated  in 
the  German  press  as  a  fact  hardly  worthy 
of  consideration.  One  regrets  that  Mark 
Twain  did  not  live  to  be  able  to  write  on 
the  miscalculations  of  the  Kaiser.  His  last 
and  greatest  miscalculation  was  the  United 
States  of  America. 

The  Kaiser,  with  his  divine-right,  medieval 
mind,  could  not  rightly  interpret  the  New  World. 
He  thought  first  that  the  spirit  of  this  country 
was  quiescent.  There  is  a  current  story  which 
aptly  expresses  the  spirit  of  this  country.  Some 
one  said  that  if  the  United  States  broke  with 
Germany  there  would  be  sixty  thousand  trained 
German  soldiers  spring  to  arms  in  the  country. 
"Well,"  said  an  American  in  reply,  "if  they  do, 
there  will  be  sixty  thousand  lamp-posts  to  hang 
'em  to." 

This  is  a  startling  reply  from  a  man  who  is  re- 
puted to  be  all  milk  and  water.  The  fighting 
blood  is  in  this  land,  and  that  blood  at  last  is 
aroused  and  boiling.  The  Crown  Prince's  sleek 
hair  is  beginning  to  stand  on  end  as  he  watches 
with  stark  terror  the  rising  of  the  great  New 

249 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

World.  One  can  imagine  his  petulant  tone  as 
Little  Willie  exclaims  to  Big  Willie,  "Look  what 
you've  gone  and  started  now!" 

There  was  a  famous  cartoon  published  in 
Punch  years  ago  entitled,  "The  Kaiser's  Bad 
Dream."  It  represented  the  old  Kaiser,  William 
I.,  in  a  dream  contemplating  with  terror  a  dragon 
rising  out  of  the  eastern  sea.  The  dragon  was 
called  "The  Eastern  Peril."  In  like  manner  ere 
long  we  may  imagine  the  present  Kaiser  con- 
templating a  new  danger  arising  across  the 
Atlantic  entitled,  "The  Western  Peril."  The 
Statue  of  Liberty  will  even  yet  haunt  the  Hohen- 
zollern  dreams. 

As  I  look  at  the  sky-line  of  Manhattan  Island  I 
see  an  emblem  of  the  progressive  spirit  of  this 
New  World.  I  hear  Lady  Macbeth  crying  over 
her  "little  hands"  and  the  sin  which  they  have 
committed,  and  then,  turning  away  from  the 
shame  that  these  "little  hands"  may  commit,  I 
regard  the  canons  of  iron  and  steel  of  lower 
Broadway;  all  this  is  the  work  of  these  frail, 
weak  "little  hands."  Against  the  shame  that 
these  "little  hands"  may  commit  stands  the 
glory  of  New  World  achievement.  The  Man- 
hattan sky-line  is  but  an  emblem  of  that  spirit 
that  must  surmount  every  obstacle  and  burst 
every  barrier.     From  the  Pilgrims  who  crossed  in 

250 


NEW  WORLD  TROOPS  IN  OLD  WORLD  WAR 

the  Mayflower  to  the  last  Slav  who  crossed  in  the 
steerage  they  all  came  because  Europe  was  too 
cramped  and  confining  for  them.  That  progres- 
sive spirit  which  brought  them  to  this  New  World 
and  which  is  making  this  New  World  is  now  ris- 
ing to  burst  the  bonds  that  Old  World  tyranny 
would  thrust  upon  them. 

If  the  war  continues  until  America  gets  a  big 
army  in  the  field  in  Europe  we  may  depend  upon 
it  that  these  New  World  troops,  impinging  upon 
their  comrades  of  England  and  France,  will  im- 
part much  of  their  freshness  to  the  Old  World 
people.  What  an  experience  it  will  be  for  the 
poilu  who  has  dwelt  all  his  life  in  a  village  of 
France,  or  for  the  cockney  who  has  never  been 
beyond  the  Bow  Bells  until  these  shifting  scenes 
of  war,  when  they  meet  as  comrades  the  citizens 
of  the  boundless  West! 

What  vast  horizon  these  American  soldiers 
will  bring  to  the  little  French  homes  where  they 
are  billeted!  With  what  open-eyed  wonder 
Madame  and  La  Belle  Demoiselle  will  listen  in 
the  Estaminets  as  some  lad  from  Texas  tells 
of  life  along  the  border.  After  the  war  Yankee 
slang  will  be  heard  behind  the  plows  in  Picardy, 
and  gray  cathedral  towns  will  thrill  with  memo- 
ries of  the  great  New  World  across  the  ocean. 
America  will  be  more  a  part  of  France  than  it  has 

251 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

been  since  the  days  of  Cliamplain  and  the 
Coureurs  de  Bois. 

In  happy  days  of  peace  when  the  hawthorn 
blooms  in  England,  quaint  towns  will  cherish 
happy  memories  of  comrades  loved  in  arms. 
Lack  of  knowledge,  which  has  been  the  tragedy 
of  Anglo-American  relations,  will  have  ceased. 
The  Commonwealth  of  Britain  and  the  American 
Republic  will  be  bound  forever  in  mutual  under- 
standing. In  the  ale-houses  of  Devon  there  will 
be  greater  interest  in  America  than  there  has  been 
since  Francis  Drake  came  home.  Strong  men  of 
the  North  Country,  who  cherish  friendship  for- 
ever, will  speak  with  a  burr  about  "our  ain 
friends  offer  the  sea." 

The  New  World  troops  will  add  freshness  to  the 
Old  World  war,  and  their  presence  will  con- 
tribute to  the  renewal  of  the  Old  World  itself. 
But  it  will  not  be  for  them  merely  an  imparting 
to  others.  They,  too,  shall  partake  of  remolding 
and  changing.  While  the  Old  World  has  much 
to  learn,  she  also  has  much  to  impart.  Towns 
of  a  thousand  years  and  of  a  thousand  memories 
may  teach  Young  America  forgotten  lessons  of 
the  past. 

Kipling  speaks  of  France  as: 

The  first  to  find  New  Truth, 
The  last  to  leave  Old  Truth  behind. 
252 


NEW  WORLD  TROOPS  IN  OLD  WORLD  WAR 

America  has  always  been  a  pathfinder  toward 
New  Truth,  but  often  she  has  left  Old  Truth 
behind.  I  heard  an  aged  Southern  gentleman, 
a  veteran  of  the  Confederacy,  bemoaning  the 
fact  that  chivalry,  honor,  and  faith  were  being 
relegated  to  the  past  in  this  country.  When  the 
fiery  and  impetuous  veteran  departed  one  re- 
ferred to  him  as  "an  old-fashioned  American." 
In  the  struggle  after  New  Truth,  some  are  be- 
ginning to  leave  behind  the  principles  which  were 
more  than  life  to  the  old  Southern  soldier. 

In  New  York  to-day  we  are  told  of  a  city  that 
used  to  be,  a  serener  city,  where  courtesy  and 
honor  ruled,  a  calmer,  deeper  city  of  the  past. 
We  well  might  strive  to  have  that  old  New  York 
restored,  and  France  may  help  us  in  the  striving. 

On  the  Subway  the  other  day,  where  every  one 
was  jostling  and  jolting,  I  saw  an  Old  World 
touch  that  came  like  something  sweet  and  from 
far  away.  A  big,  surly  bully  of  the  Prussian  type 
had  just  elbowed  a  wan-faced  lady  aside  and 
flung  himself  into  a  seat  when  from  across  the 
aisle  a  true  Frenchman,  with  all  the  courtesy  and 
gallantry  of  his  race,  arose  and  bowed  the  old 
lady  into  his  seat.  It  was  not  the  mere  act,  but 
the  chivalry  that  seemed  to  ring  through  it  that 
flung  its  glove  of  Argentine  into  the  boorishness 
of  the  Prussian, 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

Good  breeding,  courtesy,  and  ancient  chivalry 
still  reign  in  France.  They  are  among  the  Old 
World  treasures  which  we  may  borrow  from  her. 
No  nation  can  teach  better  than  France  the  les- 
son that  there  are  possessions  more  precious  than 
life.  A  little  French  maiden  in  the  town  of 
Aire-sur-le-Lys  had  lost  three  of  her  brothers  in 
the  war;  her  fourth  and  last  brother  was  called 
out  in  the  1917  class.  I  sympathized  with  her, 
but  she  smiled  and  said,  sweetly,  "C'est  pour 
France."  The  depth  of  devotion  with  which 
they  all  say,  "It  is  for  France,"  brings  the  tears 
to  my  eyes.  Our  American  lads  will  learn  the 
profoundest  truths  of  patriotism  as  they  observe 
the  heart  of  France. 

The  United  States  will  emerge  from  this  strug- 
gle with  a  far  more  potent  and  clearly  defined 
national  sentiment.  In  the  crucible  of  sacrifice, 
hyphenated  ones,  Irish-Americans,  German- 
Americans,  and  all  such,  will  pass  away.  Out  of 
the  suffering  for  a  common  cause  will  be  born 
the  spirit,  which  will  say  as  devoutly  as  the 
little  French  maiden,  "It  is  for  America."  Pa- 
triotism will  reveal  its  true  meaning  to  the  masses 
in  the  light  of  the  sacrifice  that  is  to  come. 

Rupert  Brooke  speaks  of  the  place  where  an 
English  soldier  falls  on  foreign  soil  as  "that  little 
plot  that  is  forever  England."    There  are  fields  in 

254 


NEW  WORLD  TROOPS  IN  OLD  WORLD  WAR 

France  that  will  be  "forever  America."  As  the 
soil  of  the  Old  World  gathers  to  itself  the  blood 
of  the  New,  that  soil  will  become  forever  New 
World  ground. 

"When  the  boys  come  home"  they  will  return 
to  a  better  New  World  because  they  have  fought 
and  struggled  in  this  Old  World  war. 


XV 

SERVING   OUR   SOLDIERS 

fN  a  previous  chapter  entitled  "From  the 
A  Base  to  the  Firing-line"  a  description  was 
given  of  the  every-day  life  of  the  soldier  in  France 
outside  of  the  trenches. 

We  often  hear  such  exclamations  a*s,  "Jack's 
in  the  firing-line,"  or,  "My  boy's  been  up  in  the 
trenches  for  two  years."  Judging  by  these  ex- 
clamations, one  would  infer  that  the  blessed  lads 
were  in  the  fire-trench  all  the  time.  Such  an 
idea  is  ridiculous.  I  have  been  surprised  at  the 
number  of  people  at  home  that  suffer  this 
delusion. 

As  was  already  shown,  the  soldier's  life  in 
France  has  its  gay  times  as  well  as  its  sad  times. 
With  the  soldier  as  well  as  with  the  civilian  there 
must  be  periods  of  rest  and  recreation  as  well 
as  periods  of  struggle. 

During  the  hours  in  France  which  he  has  for 
play  or  rest  the  soldier  presents  a  problem  for  the 
folks  at  home. 

256 


SERVING    OUR   SOLDIERS 

When  the  boys  come  out  of  the  trenches,  after 
a  long,  hard  stunt,  when  they  have  shed  their 
filthy,  lousy  rags  and  are  washed  and  clothed 
anew,  then  it  is  that  their  spirits  mount  high. 
They  are  out  for  a  good  time.  They  are  going  to 
have  a  jamboree,  no  matter  how  inhospitable  the 
town  nor  how  poor  the  opportunities  for  gladness. 
They  will  walk  incredible  distances,  hop  trains 
and  motor-lorries,  and  by  hook  or  by  crook  they 
will  arrive  at  the  nearest  center  of  stirring  life. 
As  a  man  craves  food,  so  also  he  craves  the  ex- 
citement of  social  life.  The  war-weary  soldier 
out  of  the  trenches  for  a  spell  is  bound  to  find 
that  life. 

Whether  the  life  that  he  finds  in  Amiens,  in 
Armentieres,  in  Poperinghe,  or  Bieuielle,  or  in 
any  other  of  the  towns  behind  the  lines,  is  up- 
lifting or  downpulling  depends  largely  upon  the 
efforts  which  we  have  made. 

Our  lads  can  go  back  to  these  towns  and 
wander  about  disconsolate  and  find  nothing  to 
welcome  them  but  the  cafes  and  the  harpies,  or 
they  may  be  supplied  with  all  kinds  of  legitimate 
amusements,  and  social  blessings,  because  we  at 
home  have  thought  not  only  of  their  physical, 
but  also  of  their  moral,  well-being. 

If  the  American  base  in  France  and  all  the 

towns  along  the  American  lines  of  communica- 
17  257 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

tion  are  to  afford  uplifting  influences  for  the 
American  troops,  it  will  not  come  by  chance. 
It  will  come  because  the  people  at  home  thought 
of  the  boys  in  these  places  and  have  paid  the 
price  in  money  and  in  service  to  provide  the  in- 
stitutions which  they  needed. 

The  Secretary  of  War  has  instituted  a  wise  and 
far-seeing  policy  in  appointing  Mr.  Fosdick  to 
look  into  the  problem  of  the  social  well-being 
of  the  troops.  The  Secretary  of  War  has  learned 
from  our  experience  that  the  casualties  of  im- 
morality may  disqualify  as  effectively  as  the 
casualties  of  shell-fire,  and  it  therefore  behooves 
us  to  exert  the  utmost  precaution  in  safeguarding 
the  moral  life  of  our  troops. 

I  am  not  referring  here  to  coddling  the  soldiers. 
Some  of  the  women  at  home,  unfortunately,  have 
been  addicted  to  this.  I  heard  an  old  Southern 
colonel  in  Virginia  grow  apoplectic  over  this  the 
other  day.  "My  God,  sir!"  he  expostulated, 
"what  are  we  coming  to  when  the  ladies  treat 
troops  like  milksops?  We  never  had  any  of 
that  in  my  day."  But  we  needn't  worry  if 
the  boys  get  a  little  coddling  here  and  there; 
the  dear  women  will  not  be  able  to  do  it 
long. 

In  France  we  must  multiply  as  far  as  possible 
those  good  agencies  for  serving  the  troops  that 

258 


SERVING    OUR   SOLDIERS 

are  not  only  uplifting,  but  are  also  strong,  joyous, 
and  robust. 

When  Jack,  or  Bob,  or  Bill  get  their  first  pass, 
and  start  to  promenade  the  streets  at  the  Amer- 
ican seaport  base,  I  hope  that  they  will  soon  find 
as  many  clubs,  tea-rooms,  canteens,  cinemas,  and 
good  friends  waiting  to  greet  them  as  the  British 
Tommies  now  have  at  Havre  and  Boulogne. 

When  General  Pershing's  men  come  out  of  the 
line  for  recreation  I  hope  that  they  will  have  far 
more  facilities  for  legitimate  amusement  than 
we  of  the  First  Canadians  had  during  our  early 
months  in  France. 

Every  precaution  must  be  taken  to  safeguard 
the  moral  life  of  our  soldiers,  for  soldiers  in  many 
ways  are  as  irresponsible  as  children.  There  is  a 
vast  difference  between  a  soldier  and  a  civilian. 
The  civilian  represents  the  spirit  of  individualism. 
The  soldier  represents  the  spirit  of  collectivism. 

From  the  day  that  the  raw  recruit  first  comes 
under  the  drill  sergeant  the  tendency  of  the  army 
is  to  knock  out  his  individualism  and  to  create 
in  its  stead  a  crowd  spirit.  As  the  recruit  be- 
comes more  and  more  a  soldier  he  think*  less  and 
less  of  self,  and  more  and  more  of  the  regiment. 
Finally,  as  a  true  soldier,  he  acts  not  for  himself, 
but  for  the  greater  whole.  Whether  he  lives  or 
dies  is  secondary  to  the  good  of  the  regiment. 


259 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

It  is  the  creating  of  this  collective  spirit  that 
enables  a  vast  body  of  men  to  act  in  times  of 
crisis  like  one  man.  While  individuals  thinking 
only  of  themselves  would  be  hiding  under  the 
crashing  parapets,  the  regiment  dauntlessly  goes 
over  the  top  with  the  first  wave.  The  fear  of  each 
man  is  lessened  by  the  crowd  spirit  which  in- 
spires him. 

This  crowd  spirit  which  proves  such  a  strength 
to  the  soldier  in  times  of  danger  is  itself  often  a 
source  of  peril  to  him  in  times  of  calm.  With 
this  crowd  spirit  it  is  easier  to  go  over  the  para- 
pet in  the  front  line,  and  in  like  manner  with  this 
crowd  spirit  it  is  easier  to  go  to  hell  behind  the 
line.  Wherever  we  see  a  great  body  of  men  per- 
meated by  this  spirit  there  is  an  evident  slipping 
up  in  the  moral  tone. 

In  the  Klondike  in  '98  there  were  on  every  hand 
erstwhile  respectable  men  going  to  the  dogs.  In 
the  red-light  sections  of  Dawson  City  one  would 
see  a  chap  buying  drinks  for  the  Mona  Lisa, 
or  some  other  demi-mondaine,  and  whizzing  her 
about  the  giddy  dance-hall  like  some  old-time 
roue.  At  home,  in  Peoria,  Illinois,  Bob  Service 
observes,  "You  would  have  to  get  a  certificate  of 
morality  to  come  within  speaking-distance  of 
this  same  chap's  daughter." 

The  explanation  of  this  sudden  and  strange 

260 


SERVING    OUR    SOLDIERS 

change  in  citizens  who  were  yesterday  emblems 
of  sobriety  is  the  crowd  spirit.  In  the  stampede 
after  gold  individualism  was  lost,  and  with  the 
loss  of  individualism  went  idealism,  which  turned 
the  Peoria,  Illinois,  Sunday-school  superintendent 
into  an  habituG  of  the  red  lights. 

This  same  peril  is  present  in  the  army  to-day. 
The  very  self-forgetfulness  that  is  the  soldier's 
strength  against  physical  danger,  is  often  his 
weakness  against  moral  danger.  That  same 
spirit  which  makes  it  easier  to  face  the  foe  in  the 
trenches  makes  it  easier  to  hit  it  up  outside  of  the 
trenches. 

When  we  add  to  the  downward  pull  of  the 
crowd  spirit  the  fact  that  loved  ones  and  friends 
and  home  and  all  those  nobler  and  finer  influences 
have  been  removed,  we  realize  the  need  of  added 
effort,  that  in  a  measure  at  least  we  may  com- 
pensate for  those  steadying  influences  which  are 
wanting.  It  is  therefore  up  to  us  to  see  that 
every  possible  good  agency  is  working  for  our 
boys  at  the  base,  at  the  rest-camps,  on  the  lines 
of  communication,  on  the  training-areas,  and  in 
billets. 

The  seaport  base  offers  a  fruitful  field  for  many 
civilians  who  are  anxious  to  serve  the  fighting- 
men.  The  British  out  of  their  long  experience 
have  perfected  many  helpful  institutions  which 

261 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

add  to  the  comfort  and  happiness  of  the  troops, 
and  which  might  profitably  be  emulated  by  the 
Americans. 

Canteens  under  the  direction  of  capable 
women,  and  attended  by  pretty  girls,  offer  re- 
freshment alike  to  drafts  coming  in  and  to 
wounded  and  men  on  leave  just  departing.  The 
canteen  has  become  a  great  institution  with  our 
army,  and  it  will  doubtless  attain  a  similar  im- 
portance with  the  Americans. 

The  canteens  are  situated  in  a  corner  of  the 
freight-sheds  where  the  troops  disembark  from  the 
ships,  at  railway  stations,  at  rest-camps,  and 
other  convenient  points.  At  these  canteens  the 
troops  are  served  free  with  coffee,  rolls,  and 
sandwiches.  With  the  men  just  off  a  troop-ship, 
or  entraining  at  the  station,  there  is  no  oppor- 
tunity for  them  to  prepare  refreshment  for  them- 
selves. A  warm  drink  provided  by  these  ladies 
is  a  real  blessing,  and  their  sweet  smile  is  often  a 
still  greater  blessing. 

Some  canteens  are  far  more  ambitious  than  the 
mere  rolls-and-coffee  booth.  They  carry  a  large 
stock  of  foods,  candies,  and  cigarettes,  and  sol- 
diers' necessities;  indeed,  they  are  the  soldiers' 
general  store.  Canteens  of  this  sort  are  also 
run  by  the  Y.  M.  C.  A. 

While  our  battery  was  in  action  in  the  Ypres 

262 


SERVING    OUR   SOLDIERS 

salient  in  1916  we  used  to  keep  our  officers'  mess 
supplied  with  canned  goods  and  shredded  wheat 
from  a  Y.  M.  C.  A.  canteen  situated  in  a  cellar 
of  Ypres. 

Soup-kitchens  have  become  quite  common  on 
the  lines  of  communication  and  at  the  base. 
They  are  almost  entirely  run  by  women.  Some 
soup-kitchens  serve  only  the  wounded;  others 
are  for  the  benefit  of  troops  on  the  move.  The 
soup  is  made  up  in  gallons  in  great  boilers.  Each 
Tommy  always  has  his  canteen  on  his  hip,  and 
one  by  one,  with  smiling  faces,  they  file  by  while 
the  charming  girls  and  motherly  women  who  at- 
tend the  kitchen  ladle  out  the  steaming  soup. 
"Gol  blyme  me,  matie,"  exclaimed  one  cockney 
to  another,  "  I  don't  know  which  I  loikes  best,  the 
'ot  broth  or  the  loidy's  foice." 

Some  of  the  best  women  of  England,  both 
young  and  middle-aged,  have  been  engaged  in 
serving  in  these  canteens  and  soup-kitchens.  I 
saw  the  elder  daughter  of  Premier  Lloyd  George 
busily  helping  in  a  canteen  one  day  in  Boulogne. 
Lady  Angela  Forbes  established  a  bath  place  for 
the  troops  near  Boulogne.  The  army  handles 
public  baths  for  the  soldiers,  but  with  the  Eng- 
lishman's love  of  being  clean  a  bath  is  always  a 
longed-for  luxury.  Hence  the  added  facilities  in 
this  direction   are  greatly   appreciated.     There 

263 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

are  now  a  number  of  free  baths  instituted  by  dif- 
ferent societies  in  various  places. 

One  finds  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  not  only  at  the  base, 
but  everywhere  where  the  troops  are  congre- 
gated, even  right  up  to  the  support  trenches. 
On  the  Somme  last  year  I  used  to  remark  on  the 
sign  of  the  Red  Triangle  which  appeared  outside 
of  a  Y.  M.  C.  A.  dugout  in  a  most  unwholesome 
area.  The  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  embracing  in  its  service 
the  whole  army,  irrespective  of  creed  or  belief,  is 
the  real  solution  for  the  problem  of  serving  the 
troops. 

At  the  base  they  always  have  a  perfect  equip- 
ment for  entertainments,  moving-picture  shows, 
religious  services,  and  social  gatherings.  Their 
plant  includes  reading  and  social  rooms,  games, 
phonographs,  pianos,  baths,  lunch-counters,  and, 
in  short,  everything  necessary  to  improve  the 
social  well-being  of  the  enlisted  men.  Up  in  the 
shelled  area  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  carry  on  their  work 
in  cellars,  ruined  buildings,  tents,  shacks,  dug- 
outs, and  all  kinds  of  unlikely  places. 

The  opportunities  for  letter-writing  offered  by 
the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  are  especially  appreciated  not 
only  by  the  troops,  but  by  their  friends  at  home. 
In  the  huts  or  tents  there  is  always  the  requisite 
material  for  writing.  The  total  amount  of  letter- 
paper  consumed  by  the  American  troops  already 

264 


SERVING    OUR    SOLDIERS 

amounts  to  a  million  sheets  of  paper  and  a  half 
a  million  envelopes  a  day.  This  is  a  slight 
example  of  the  magnitude  of  the  undertaking. 

Mr.  Baker,  Secretary  of  War,  has  said  of  the 
Y.  M.  C.  A.,  "It  provides  for  the  social  side — the 
home  side  of  the  life  of  the  soldiers,  and  its  in- 
fluence in  rationalizing  the  strange  environment 
into  which  this  crisis  has  plunged  our  young  men 
has  been  and  will  be  most  beneficent." 

My  observation  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  in  France  is 
that  it  is  the  best  possible  way  through  which  one 
at  home  can  serve  the  lads  at  the  front.  A  pub- 
lic-spirited American  asked  me  the  other  day, 
"What  is  the  most  effective  means  by  which  I 
can  invest  my  money  for  the  social  well-being  of 
our  troops?"  I  answered,  "Unquestionably  the 
Y.  M.  C.  A."  They  have  perfected  the  system 
of  service  to  the  troops  until  it  has  become  an 
indispensable  part  of  the  army,  by  its  very  na- 
ture outside  of  the  regular  establishment,  but 
nevertheless  an  absolutely  essential  arm  of  the 
service.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  quackery  and 
trumpery  in  the  many  mushroom  philanthropies 
that  spring  up  in  war-time.  It  is  therefore  a 
relief  for  one  to  have  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  as  an  au- 
thentic institution,  where  every  cent  invested  for 
service  will  bring  the  greatest  possible  return  to 
those  for  whom  it  was  intended. 

265 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

An  officers'  club  which  was  started  in  Boulogne 
many  months  ago  has  proved  a  great  boon.  The 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  and  other  institutions  cater  to  the 
enlisted  men.  On  account  of  their  position,  of- 
ficers cannot  mingle  too  familiarly  with  the  rank 
and  file,  and  in  consequence  the  soldier  is  gener- 
ally far  better  cared  for  than  the  officer  in  regard 
to  social  institutions.  Realizing  this  especial 
need,  a  number  of  wise  and  public-spirited  folk 
at  home  got  together  and  organized  the  Officers' 
Club  at  Boulogne.  This  club  now  occupies  an 
entire  building,  with  bedrooms  where  officers 
coming  or  going  may  spend  the  night.  There  is 
also  a  reading-room,  a  social-room,  and  a  first- 
class  restaurant. 

In  the  early  days  of  the  war  I  remember  wan- 
dering disconsolately  all  over  Boulogne.  The 
strange  French  town  offered  no  place  of  hospital- 
ity. But  to-day  the  Officers'  Club  has  become 
at  once  a  home  and  a  place  of  social  forgathering 
to  all  itinerant  officers.  Similar  clubs  have  since 
sprung  up  at  St.  Omer,  Poperinghe,  and  other 
places  on  lines  of  communication  and  well  up 
toward  the  front.  The  Americans  might  also  do 
well  to  emulate  our  example  in  organizing  similar 
officers'  clubs. 

One  word  of  advice  might  not  be  out  of  place 
here  regarding  the  sending  of  parcels  to  the  boys 

266 


SERVING    OUR   SOLDIERS 

in  France.  There  are  three  staple  articles  that 
are  always  most  welcome  to  the  soldiers — 
chocolate,  cigarettes,  and  chewing-gum.  These 
articles  are  portable  and  can  be  easily  shipped  and 
they  are  always  serviceable.  Simplicity  should 
always  be  the  guide  in  making  up  packages  for 
France.  Hard  chocolate  is  a  food,  indeed  the 
best  ration  for  emergency.  Cigarettes  help  to 
while  away  the  heavy  hours  on  the  front  line. 
Wrigley's  celebrated  chewing-gum  is  an  article 
for  which  I  hold  no  advertising  brief,  but  our 
boys  in  France  have  blessed  the  name  of  Wrigley. 
Gum-chewing  may  appear  vulgar,  but  it  is  sooth- 
ing to  the  nerves.  When  a  man's  mouth  is  dry 
from  the  terror  of  shell-fire,  chewing-gum  has  its 
compensations. 

In  sending  parcels  I  would  give  one  word  of 
caution.  Shun  the  inventions  that  are  palmed 
off  by  enterprising  merchants  as  indispensable 
additions  to  the  soldiers'  equipment.  These  in- 
ventions may  appear  pretty  to  you  on  the  shop 
counter,  but  they  are  generally  useless  in  the 
trenches.  While  in  France  I  received  an 
abundance  of  such  trash  from  well-meaning, 
kind-hearted  friends.  A  man  in  the  trenches 
does  not  need  much  in  the  line  of  equipment, 
and  all  these  necessaries  are  provided  by 
ordnance. 

267 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

In  our  desire  to  assist  the  boys  in  France  we 
should  always  remember  that  our  efforts  must 
find  expression  through  regularly  organized  so- 
cieties that  have  the  official  recognition;  other- 
wise it  would  be  impossible  to  do  anything.  I 
knew  a  lady  in  Richmond,  England,  who  was 
frightfully  vexed  and  declared  that  she  would 
do  no  more  work  for  the  soldiers  because  the 
War  Office  required  her  to  work  through  recog- 
nized channels,  instead  of  carrying  on  petty  little 
schemes  in  her  own  way.  In  the  army,  with 
civilians  as  with  soldiers,  everything  must  come 
under  regulations.  The  folks  at  home  must  al- 
ways remember  this  fundamental  requirement  of 
discipline. 


XVI 

A   CKADLE  OF  OUR  VICTORIES 

T  TEART  of  this  land  and  hope  of  this  nation 
*  *  is  the  Barrack  Square  at  Plattsburg.  For 
the  casual  observer  that  camp  on  the  enchanting 
shore  of  Lake  Champlain  is  merely  a  sight  of  pass- 
ing interest.  For  those  who  have  eyes  to  see, 
it  is  the  beginning  of  a  new  page  in  American 
history. 

Those  in  America  who  are  awake  realize  that 
this  country  is  tiptoeing  on  the  threshold  of  a 
glorious  epoch.  For  them  the  Barrack  Square 
of  the  training-camp  is  pregnant  with  victories 
of  the  nation  that  are  yet  to  be.  In  the  crowded 
cantonments  of  Plattsburg  are  boys  of  unknown 
name  whose  heroic  deeds  may  even  yet  be  told 
to  children's  children. 

When  Jeffries  and  Johnson  fought  for  the 
championship  of  the  world  the  eyes  of  all  America 
were  on  their  respective  training-camps.  How 
much  more  should  the  eyes  of  America  be  on  the 
camp  where  she  herself  is  training  for  that  greater 

269 


THE   REAL   FRONT 

gladiatorial  combat  enwrapping  her  own  destiny ! 
Plattsburg  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  places 
in  America  to-day.  On  the  way  thither  our  car 
passed  through  the  glories  of  the  Adirondacks, 
but  I  must  confess  that  I  was  far  more  intent  on 
seeing  the  place  where  this  country's  history  is  in 
the  making  than  I  was  on  regarding  the  beauties 
of  nature  along  the  way. 

Three  years  before,  in  August,  1914,  I  was 
training  with  the  First  Canadian  Division  at  Val 
Cartier.  Fellow-feeling  makes  us  wondrous  kind, 
and  also  wondrous  keen.  With  a  sympathy  and 
a  curiosity  rarely  experienced,  I  regarded  the 
rows  of  huts  and  the  sand-pits  and  the  rifle- 
ranges  that  marked  the  outlines  of  the  camp. 

At  first  sight  this  might  have  been  one  of  Eng- 
land's great  training-centers  at  Salisbury  Plains 
or  Aldershot,  then  the  appearance  of  felt  hats  and 
the  absence  of  fixed  bayonets  and  punctilious 
ceremony  marked  it  as  truly  American. 

The  headquarters  was  situated  in  a  large  brick 
building,  to  which  I  went.  Unchallenged  by  any 
sentries,  and  without  any  clinking  of  spurs  or 
clanking  of  steel,  I  found  myself  in  the  com- 
mandant's office. 

"This  is  more  like  going  in  to  see  a  college 
president  than  going  in  to  see  a  commanding 
officer,"  I  said  to  myself.     Everywhere  was  ab- 

270 


A    CRADLE   OF    OUR   VICTORIES 

sence  of  that  ostentation  and  military  display 
which,  as  a  British  soldier,  had  been  bred  into 
my  bone.  How  some  of  my  good  English 
friends  would  have  been  shocked  at  this  ignoring 
of  tradition!  But  being  a  true  Westerner,  I  was 
delighted. 

In  his  quiet  inner  office  I  found  Colonel  Wolf, 
deep  in  his  morning  correspondence.  In  the 
outer  rooms  the  typewriters  were  clicking,  while 
a  breeze  through  the  open  window  brought  the 
sound  of  marching  troops. 

On  looking  at  Colonel  Wolf  I  felt,  by  that  un- 
erring instinct  of  the  service,  that  I  was  regarding 
a  true  soldier.  Some  of  the  fuss  and  feathers  of 
Old  World  militarism  might  be  missing  here,  but 
under  the  man  was  the  same  soldierly  spirit  and 
the  same  iron  discipline. 

While  I  sat  in  the  office  the  colonel  attended 
to  several  men  who  were  leaving  that  morning. 
Every  day,  for  mental  or  physical  shortcomings, 
or  for  weakness  of  heart,  a  certain  number  are 
dropped.  If  you  would  know  what  is  going  on 
at  Plattsburg,  take  your  Bible  and  read  the 
seventh  chapter  of  the  Book  of  Judges.  This 
ancient  story  is  being  repeated  in  the  United 
States  to-day.  As  Gideon  picked  his  three  hun- 
dred from  the  thirty  thousand,  so  America  is 
picking  her  three  thousand  from  the  ten  million. 

271 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

Carlyle  says  the  king  is  the  man  who  can.  The 
men  who  survive  the  Plattsburg  test  will  all  be 
kings,  men  who  can,  and  as  such  they  will  be 
officers  by  divine  right. 

One  thing  that  pleased  me  in  Colonel  Wolf's 
interviews  with  the  young  men  that  came  before 
him  was  his  kindly  attitude  toward  them  all. 
The  army,  always  a  despotism,  is,  alas,  too  in- 
frequently, a  benevolent  despotism.  It  was  a 
rare  pleasure  to  see  a  high  officer  treat  mere  un- 
derlings with  the  deference  which  the  com- 
mandant here  showed  to  all. 

In  company  with  Colonel  Wolf  I  made  a  tour 
around  the  camp,  inspecting  its  equipment,  and 
observing  the  men  at  their  various  tasks.  No 
'varsity  team  out  for  the  season's  trophy  were 
more  keen  than  the  training  troops.  Every  man 
appeared  to  be  in  deadly  earnest.  Nothing  ap- 
peals so  much  to  an  officer  as  to  see  his  men 
really  trying,  and  here  every  man  was  doing  his 
best. 

As  I  watched  a  group  of  men  marching  by 
with  sloped  arms  from  the  rifle-ranges,  there 
seemed  to  come  to  me  a  momentary  din  from  that 
far-off  battle-line;  then,  looking  at  the  placid 
scenery,  involuntarily  I  exclaimed,  "It's  a  long 
way  to  Tipperary !"  These  boys  will  soon  enough 
have  their  share  of  the  awful  line;   meanwhile, 

272 


A    CRADLE    OF   OUR    VICTORIES 

in  this  peaceful  sanctuary  they  are  learning  well 
their  Spartan  lessons  for  the  iron  days  ahead. 

The  training  is  mainly  under  the  direction  of 
regular  officers  from  West  Point,  than  whom  there 
are  no  finer  officers  in  the  world.  These  regular 
officers  have  added  to  their  experience  the  best 
counsel  of  the  military  advisers  from  the  British 
and  French  missions.  The  training  given  is  the 
best  that  our  past  experience  can  devise. 

The  first  and  main  task  in  the  making  of  an 
army  is  to  develop  a  soldierly  spirit  in  each  in- 
dividual, so  that  he  ceases  to  act  as  an  individual 
and  becomes  one  of  a  greater  whole.  Inculcating 
discipline  is  the  pre-eminent  task  of  Plattsburg, 
and  this  quality  is  the  backbone  of  the  army. 
They  are  getting  the  lessons  of  discipline  better 
than  we  got  them  at  Val  Cartier,  and  just  as  they 
are  getting  them  in  all  of  England's  and  Canada's 
training-camps  to-day. 

When  the  inculcating  of  discipline  has  been 
accomplished,  all  other  tasks  easily  and  naturally 
follow.  Without  this  quality  all  other  tasks 
would  fail.  Several  so-called  war  correspondents 
who  have  been  writing  on  the  training  of  Amer- 
ican troops  have  uttered  strictures  against  the 
present  system:  "Why  don't  they  get  busy  and 
give  the  real  bayonet-work?"  "Where's  the  in- 
struction   in    bombing    and    in    intrenching?" 

1 8  273 


THE   REAL   FRONT 

These  later  lessons  have  not  been  tackled  yet, 
because  it  is  necessary  to  learn  the  alphabet  be- 
fore we  begin  to  read.  Discipline  is  the  alphabet 
of  soldiering. 

In  my  morning  tour  with  the  colonel  I  saw  the 
official  side  of  the  camp,  but  I  wanted  also  to  see 
the  human  side,  to  mix  with  the  men  who  made 
up  the  rank  and  file.  Accordingly,  after  lunch, 
I  set  out  on  my  own  to  chum  in  with  the  boys. 
It  was  Saturday  afternoon,  a  half-holiday,  the 
first  respite  since  5.30  a.m.  last  Monday.  Those 
who  know  something  of  the  birth-pains  of  a  new 
army,  of  its  agonizing  and  unceasing  toil,  know 
how  sweet  indeed  is  that  half-day  of  rest. 

The  camp  swarmed  with  groups  of  soldiers, 
some  loitering  about,  others  basking  in  the  sun. 
A  lady  seated  in  a  limousine  blandly  remarked, 
"A  soldier's  life  is  an  awfully  lazy  one,  isn't  it?" 
I  looked  at  her  and  smiled.  "Ignorance  is  bliss, 
madam,"  I  replied.  What  did  she  know  of  those 
man-breaking,  heartbreaking  hours  that  were 
crowded  between  reveille  and  taps  each  day? 

In  a  dry  canteen,  that  is,  a  drinking-place  with 
nothing  wetter  than  ginger-beer,  a  young  friend 
took  me  to  slake  my  thirst.  The  place  was  full 
of  soldiers,  to  whom  my  guide  introduced  me  as 
an  officer  back  from  the  front.  I  have  talked 
with  several  interested  audiences  since  returning, 

274 


A    CRADLE   OF   OUR   VICTORIES 

but  never  have  I  experienced  anything  like  the 
eagerness  with  which  these  embryonic  officers 
hung  on  my  every  word  relating  to  the  war  and 
the  conditions  in  the  line.  As  with  us  at  Val 
Cartier  in  1914,  so  with  them  the  chief  worry 
was,  "The  war  may  be  over  before  we  get  there." 
The  same  impetuousness  to  serve  that  charac- 
terized my  comrades  of  the  First  Canadian  Di- 
vision characterizes  these  lads  at  Plattsburg. 

Outside,  in  front  of  one  of  the  huts,  I  found  a 
large  group  cleaning  rifles.  A  first  lieutenant 
standing  by  gave  me  a  smile. 

"You  are  in  the  Regulars?"  I  inquired. 

"No,"  he  replied.     "Why  did  you  think  so?" 

"Well,"  I  answered,  "partly  because  of  your 
manner,  and  partly  because  of  the  set  of  your 
back  and  shoulders.  You  look  as  though  you 
had  done  your  three  years  on  the  parade-square." 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  used  to  row  on  the  Yale 
crew,  and  that's  where  I  got  my  set-up." 

In  company  with  this  fine-looking  young  of- 
ficer and  an  ex  all-American  football  star  I  set 
out  to  visit  the  ladies'  booth,  an  excellent  institu- 
tion where  sweethearts  and  wives  may  forgather 
when  they  come  to  visit  their  men-folk.  The 
afternoon-tea  crowd  on  the  veranda  brought 
very  vivid  memories  of  Old  England. 

My  guides  next  took  me  to  the  rifle-ranges, 

275 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

and  then,  being  an  ex-cavalryman,  I  gravitated 
to  the  cavalry-lines,  where  I  sympathized  with 
the  mounted  men,  who  were  cavalrymen  only  in 
name,  as  they  were  drilled  without  horses. 

One  corporal  of  horse  with  an  amazing  reper- 
torie  of  strong  language  cursed  Bill  Kaiser  into 
the  lowest  hell  into  which  I  have  yet  heard  him 
consigned,  because,  he  declared,  the  Kaiser  had 
made  war  a  hoof-sloggers'  game. 

After  talking  more  or  less  intimately  with 
several  score  of  the  Plattsburg  cadets,  I  was 
struck  by  the  fact  that  they  represented  the 
aristocracy  of  America.  I  do  not  mean  by  that 
the  moneyed  class,  but  rather  the  aristocracy  of 
true  worth.  These  men  are  the  noble  ones  of  the 
country,  and,  as  such,  the  rank  and  file  instinc- 
tively must  give  them  deference. 

Fortescue,  in  his  Military  History,  says  that 
British  soldiers  would  sooner  follow  an  eighteen- 
year-old  school-boy  just  out  of  Eton  than  a 
grizzled  old  sergeant  of  twenty  years'  cam- 
paigning. A  true  officer  must  be  an  aristocrat  or, 
as  Tommy  Atkins  puts  it,  "a  toff  in  his  own 
right."     Such  are  the  Plattsburg  cadets. 

Two  things  that  make  my  faith  in  Plattsburg 

are:  first,  the  quality  of  the  men  who  are  being 

trained  there;    they  are  the  born  leaders  from 

the  aristocracy  of  the  country;  and,  second,  the 

276 


A    CRADLE    OF    OUR   VICTORIES 

training  of  these  men  is  concentrated  on  dis- 
cipline, which,  since  the  days  of  the  Spartans, 
has  been  the  bed-rock  of  soldiering. 

Napoleon's  maxim,  that  the  French,  with  good 
officers,  could  beat  the  world,  still  holds  true, 
and  it  is  equally  applicable  for  Americans.  The 
portents  are  all  of  the  best  for  the  new  officers 
who  are  being  made  at  Plattsburg. 


XVII 

HOW   SLEEP   THE  BRAVE 

f  |  ^OWARD  the  close  of  a  somber  afternoon,  in 
*■  rain  and  mist,  I  stood  before  the  Estaminet 
de  Commerce  in  the  city  of  Lilliers.  The  melan- 
choly autumn  season  had  come,  and  the  specter 
of  approaching  winter  in  the  trenches  loomed 
before  us. 

It  was  a  mournful  throng  of  soldiers  and  civil- 
ians that  stood  there  waiting  and  silently  shiver- 
ing, or  stamping  wet  feet  on  the  pave  of  the 
Grand  Place.  The  spirit  of  the  throng  and  the 
funeral  aspect  of  the  day  itself  were  sadly  in  keep- 
ing with  the  occasion  which  had  brought  us 
together. 

Through  the  Grand  Place,  with  arms  reversed 
to  the  wailing  music  of  the  "Dead  March"  in 
Saul,  came  a  column  of  marching  troops.  Over 
the  pave  rattled  a  gun-carriage,  bearing  a  box 
entwined  with  the  Union  Jack.  Lieut.-Gen.  Sir 
Thomson  Capper  was  being  borne  to  his  grave. 
The  far-famed  and  gallant  general  of  the  Iron 

278 


HOW   SLEEP   THE    BRAVE 

Division  had  fallen  two  days  before  in  the  awful 
fighting  at  Loos,  and  now  his  comrades  were  giv- 
ing him  the  soldiers'  last  farewell. 

Many  times  I  had  encountered  the  Seventh,  or 
Iron,  Division.  Sir  Thomson  Capper  was  a 
name  to  conjure  with  along  the  western  front. 
Only  a  short  time  before  one  of  his  own  Northum- 
berland Hussars  had  held  forth  to  me  on  the 
deeds  of  the  Iron  Division,  from  their  belated  ar- 
rival at  Antwerp  to  their  historic  stand  at 
Ypres.  "And  it's  all  because  of  our  general,  it 
is,"  declared  the  trooper.  "He's  the  fightin'est 
general  on  the  line." 

On  Sunday  afternoon  Sir  Thomson  Capper 
stood  directing  his  men  in  a  frightful  and  bloody 
encounter.  This  was  nothing  new  to  him  or  to 
his  Iron  Division.  Ever  since  the  autumn  of 
1914  they  had  been  winning  their  name  by  cease- 
less fighting  in  such  battles.  On  that  fateful 
Sunday  afternoon  General  Capper  was  shot 
through  the  lungs.  He  was  carried  to  the  rear, 
and  died  in  hospital  next  day.  "We  are  here  to 
do  the  impossible,"  was  the  fiery  watchword 
which  he  left  with  his  troops. 

And  now,  on  that  Tuesday  evening  in  Sep- 
tember, all  that  was  mortal  of  our  "fightin'est 
general "  went  by  on  a  gun-carriage.  His  career 
of  luster  and  renown  was  ended.     The  keeping 

279 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

up  of  the  resplendent  glories  of  the  Iron  Division 
had  fallen  into  other  hands. 

As  the  cortege  passed  the  place  where  we  were 
standing,  our  irregular  shifting  mass  suddenly 
became  rigid  as  every  soldier  came  to  the  salute, 
a  salute  that  bespoke  the  soldier's  deepest 
feeling. 

A  half-hour  after  the  general's  funeral  I  saw 
many  of  the  faces  lately  darkened  by  sorrow 
again  radiant  and  fair.  Whatever  clouds  might 
be  without,  true  soldiers  never  suffer  them  long 
within. 

Last  night  was  a  restless  and  tumultuous  one. 
This  evening  there  is  a  momentary  lull.  It  is 
the  lull  in  the  storm.  The  nerves  are  tensely 
waiting  for  the  thunders  that  shall  break  again; 
but,  meanwhile,  in  that  gay  forgathering  of  the 
Estaminet  de  Commerce,  there  is  no  place  for  sad 
repining. 

Death  we  regard  as  a  very  unpleasant  fellow  at 
home.  We  are  cowards  when  he  appears.  The 
sight  of  the  hearse  in  the  street,  or  the  crepe  on 
the  door,  gives  us  chill  premonitions.  But 
death,  whom  we  evade  so  well  in  days  of  peace, 
is  ever  present  in  a  world  of  war. 

At  home  in  the  good  old  world  of  peace  we 
speak  of  the  Angel  of  Death.  His  rare  but  tragic 
visitations  are  cataclysms  in  our  homes.    "Over 

280 


HOW   SLEEP    THE    BRAVE 

There"  it  is  no  longer  the  Angel  of  Death.  We 
must  say  Angels  of  Death  "Over  There,"  for 
they  fly  in  legions.  One  is  ever  dwelling  beneath 
the  shadow  of  their  withering  wings.  On  the 
right  and  left,  comrades  are  always  falling,  until 
what  was  cataclysmic  in  our  homes  becomes 
incidental  in  our  trenches. 

In  the  family  circle  the  passing  of  a  loved  one 
is  like  a  fixed  star  falling  out  of  heaven.  At  the 
front  it  is  one  of  the  events  that  make  up  the 
warp  and  woof  of  every  day. 

"Forgetting  those  things  which  are  behind ,J 
must  ever  be  the  soldier's  motto.  Our  dearest 
pal  slept  here  last  night.  To-night  his  sleeping- 
bag  is  empty.  With  wistful  eyes  I  gaze  across 
the  dugout  at  his  place,  and  as  I  think  of  all  our 
months  of  sweetest  comradeship  so  rudely  ended 
the  tears  are  welling  up  into  my  eyes.  But  tears 
and  the  tender  past  must  wait  in  this  stern  present. 

A  loud  rapping  is  heard  from  without,  and  in 
explosive  notes  of  alarm  a  voice  cries  forth, 
"S  O  S!  Battery  action!"  Up  under  the 
scintillant  flare  of  the  star-shells  there  is  a  sud- 
den burst  of  hectic  light  and  a  muffled  roar. 
Up  there  beneath  that  flare  some  of  our  boys  are 
dying,  and  others  in  frantic  tones  cry  forth  for 
us  to  save  them.  We  read  their  cries  in  trailing 
rockets  through  the  night. 

281 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

"Forgetting  the  things  which  are  behind,"  we, 
the  servants  of  the  guns,  must  leap  to  action,  and 
give  back  our  thunders  in  answer  to  that  cry. 

Gone  is  the  moment  of  tender  memories  and  of 
welling  tears.  Old  John,  our  loved  and  trusty- 
pal,  is  missing,  but  his  place  is  filled.  Sharp 
and  clear  the  orders  ring  out,  just  as  Old  John 
would  have  rung  them.  The  crack  of  an 
eighteen-pounder  answers,  while  a  howitzer  bays 
beside,  and  in  another  minute  a  thousand  guns 
are  talking. 

Peace  gives  us  time  to  mourn,  but  war  knows 
no  such  respite;  and  perhaps  it  is  just  as  well,  for 
otherwise  the  weight  of  sorrow  would  engulf  us. 

Now  and  again,  as  I  have  moved  up  and  down 
behind  the  various  portions  of  our  line,  in  France 
or  Flanders,  I  have  paused  for  contemplation  in 
one  of  our  great  and  ever-growing  cemeteries. 
Everywhere  behind  the  lines  one  encounters 
these  tragic,  yet  soul-enkindling,  plots  of  ground 
that  have  been  forever  hallowed  by  the  bones 
of  our  brave. 

Who  can  regard  the  grave  of  a  man  who  died 
for  his  country  without  experiencing  emotions 
that  lie  too  deep  for  words?  On  such  spots  one 
enters  into  the  inner  meaning  of  the  sacrifice  of 
Calvary.  "For  what  greater  thing  can  a  man 
do  than  to  lay  down  his  life  for  a  friend?" 

282 


HOW    SLEEP   THE   BRAVE 

In  front  of  Westminster  Abbey  there  is  a 
column,  erected  to  the  dead  heroes  of  West- 
minster School.  Many  a  time,  as  a  lad,  I  have 
stood  in  front  of  that  column  and  read  in  solemn 
silence  its  inscription: 

To  those  Boys  educated  at  Westminster  School  who 
died  in  the  Russian  and  Indian  Wars,  Anno  Domini  1854 
to  1858,  some  in  early  youth,  some  full  of  years  and  honor, 
some  on  the  field  of  battle,  some  from  wounds  and  sick- 
ness, but  who  all  alike  gave  their  fives  for  their  country. 

This  column  is  erected  by  their  old  school-fellows,  at 
Westminster  School,  with  the  hope  that  it  may  inspire  in 
their  successors  the  same  courage  and  self-devotion. 

On  the  reverse  side  of  the  column  I  read  the 
long  list  of  names,  from  Field-Marshal  Lord 
Raglan,  the  commander-in-chief,  to  the  youngest 
cornet  and  middy  who  had  died.  From  the 
school  quadrangle  came  the  merry  laughter  of 
Westminster  boys  at  play,  and,  standing  there, 
there  came  upon  my  soul  the  first  dawning  of  that 
sacrifice  which  soldiers  make  when  they  lay  down 
their  lives  for  their  country. 

During  the  armistice  between  the  first  and 
second  Balkan  wars  I  was  in  Egypt.  Traveling 
one  day  across  the  desert,  I  alighted  at  a  station 
called  Tel-el-Kebir.  Here  Wolseley  won  his  vic- 
tory over  Arabi  in  1882.  On  that  January  day 
of  1913  I  found  a  single  building,  serving  as  a 
railroad  station,  and  beside  it  a  cemetery,  with 

283 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

its  rows  of  crosses,  drawn  up  in  as  orderly  a 
fashion  as  a  company  on  parade. 

I  entered  the  cemetery,  and  the  first  name  I 
read  was  that  of  Lachlan  MacTavish,  of  a  certain 
Scottish  regiment.  The  burr  of  his  Highland 
name  sounded  like  the  rush  of  a  mountain  tairn 
in  his  far-off  Highland  home.  For  the  moment 
I  seemed  to  feel  the  freshness  from  the  moorlands 
and  the  heather,  then  my  eye  caught  the  pathetic 
little  cross  that  stood  amid  the  shifting  of  the 
desert  sands.  There,  as  never  before,  I  realized 
the  sacrifice  of  those  who  laid  down  their  lives  on 
a  foreign  soil  in  the  service  of  their  flag. 

A  yet  profounder  realization  of  this  sacrifice 
was  borne  upon  me  one  evening  in  June,  1915. 
That  night  I  entered  the  trenches  beyond  Gi- 
venchy  town  for  the  first  time. 

At  twilight  I  turned  in  from  the  La  Basse 
Canal,  crossed  a  field  to  the  main  street  of 
Givenchy,  and  proceeded  down  into  the  town. 
The  place  was  completely  abandoned,  and  had 
been  badly  ruined  by  shell-fire.  In  that  twilight 
hour  the  streets  were  full  of  haunted  houses,  in- 
stinct with  ghosts  and  memories.  A  solitary 
dog,  leaping  across  a  wrecked  bridge  that  hung 
by  a  single  trestle,  appeared  like  a  ghoulish 
creature. 

One  was  oppressed  by  these  haunting  shadows 

284. 


HOW   SLEEP   THE    BRAVE 

in  what  had  once  been  Givenchy  homes,  far  more 
than  one  was  by  the  frequent  note  of  shells  pass- 
ing over  the  town.  In  one  quaint  house,  whose 
wall  had  been  crushed  in,  I  saw  a  little  cradle. 
What  eloquence  of  tragedy  was  there! 

In  a  saddened  mood  I  approached  the  dis- 
tillery. In  one  of  the  houses  opposite  a  grand 
piano  still  remained  intact.  The  Fifth  Royal 
Highlanders  of  Canada  were  coming  out  of  the 
trenches  that  night.  The  first  company  was 
already  out,  and  one  of  their  musicians  was  play- 
ing, "To  You,  Beautiful  Lady  in  Pink,"  upon 
the  inharmonious  and  strident  instrument. 

Up  and  down  in  the  rooms  of  the  adjacent 
houses  the  Highlanders  were  cake-walking,  some 
with  their  packs  still  on  their  backs.  The  burst- 
ing of  several  shells  in  a  side-street  only  served 
to  accentuate  the  comedy  of  the  scene.  What- 
ever else  happened,  this  battalion  was  going  out, 
so  the  musician  pounded  the  keys  in  ecstasy, 
and  the  boys  cake-walked  with  equal  glee. 

Through  the  shadowy  distillery  I  wended  my 
way  with  a  higher  spirit  from  the  contagious  mer- 
riment of  the  Highlanders.  Beyond  the  dis- 
tillery was  another  open  field,  and  a  farm- 
yard with  the  buildings  long  since  razed  to  the 
ground.  Hardly  a  stone  was  left  standing  in  this 
spot.    The  enemy's   shells   had   surely   reaped 

285 


THE   REAL   FRONT 

good  harvest  here.  Beside  the  ruined  farm  was 
the  witness  of  a  still  sadder  harvest.  A  ceme- 
tery, with  its  row  on  row  of  little  wooden  crosses, 
stretched  out  toward  the  communicating 
trenches. 

The  night  was  falling  fast,  and  there  in  the 
gathering  gloom  I  waited  for  over  an  hour  for  the 
last  company  coming  in.  In  the  darkness  one  was 
especially  touched  by  the  meaning  of  those  little 
crosses.  In  fitful  light  beneath  the  star-shells 
these  crosses  loomed  before  me  in  momentary 
flashes,  then  faded  in  the  night. 

How  profound  was  the  peace  that  lingered 
round  that  spot!  In  front  of  me  I  could  see  the 
white  glare  that  marked  the  firing-line,  whence 
came  now  and  then  the  rattle  of  musketry,  the 
popping  of  machine-guns,  or  the  crump  of  burst- 
ing shells. 

Behind  me  in  Givenchy  town  the  artist  was 
still  performing  on  the  grand  piano.  "The  Pink 
Lady"  was  the  limit  of  his  repertoire,  but  the 
Irrepressibles  still  danced  on.  Between  the  grim 
firing-line,  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  revelry  of  the 
Highlanders,  on  the  other,  stretched  those  little 
wooden  crosses.  In  their  quiet  plot  the  brave 
slept  well  that  night,  for  they  had  done  their 
duty. 

Their  work  was  finished,  and  well  might  they 

286 


HOW   SLEEP    THE    BRAVE 

sleep  on,  knowing  that  those  comrades  whom 
they  left  behind  would  carry  on  in  their  stead, 
and  that,  even  as  they,  their  comrades  behind 
would  be  faithful  unto  death. 

From  our  line  the  rattle  of  rifles  told  me  that 
England  was  busy  and  that  our  troops  up  there 
were  keeping  their  faith  with  their  pals  who  had 
died. 

"I've  copped  it,  mate;  swat  'em  one  for  me," 
were  the  dying  words  of  a  game  little  cockney. 

"Go  about  your  duty,"  was  the  last  speech  of 
the  stricken  Colonel  MacLean  of  the  Sixth 
Gordons,  to  those  who  paused  in  the  fighting  to 
attend  to  him. 

What  all  these  dead  required  was  that  the 
living  should  fight  on,  and  thus  keep  faith  with 
them.  Up  and  down  that  bivouac  of  the  dead 
I  seemed  to  feel  their  unseen  sentry  walking. 
Where  they  had  pitched  their  silent  tents  they, 
too,  had  set  their  silent  picket.  That  night, 
above  those  shadowy  graves,  the  sentry  of  the 
dead  paused  and  listened.  From  the  line  came 
the  sound  of  fighting.  From  behind  came  the 
voice  of  revelry  and  song.  And  this  was  as  it 
should  be.  Not  in  repining,  but  in  gladness, 
must  the  soldier  spend  his  resting  hours.  Soon, 
perchance,  that  Highlander  who  was  pounding 
out  "The  Pink  Lady,"  and  all  his  jolly  dancers, 

287 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

would  join  these  dead  in  their  narrow  beds.  But 
there  they  were  playing  their  part  as  true  soldiers. 

I  seemed  to  hear  the  sentry  of  the  dead  cry 
out  that  night:  "All's  well!  All's  well!"  The 
brave  might  sleep  their  sleep  in  peace,  because 
their  comrades  behind  were  doing  their  duty. 

In  France  one  encounters  soldiers'  graves  in 
all  kinds  of  unlikely  places.  Right  in  the  front- 
line trenches  before  Hill  60  there  was  a  little 
wooden  cross  with  the  name  of  a  French  soldier 
painted  on  it.  The  soldier  fell  away  back  in  the 
first  months  of  the  war,  when  everything  was 
fluid  and  the  tide  of  war  was  shifting  back  and 
forth.  Soon  after  that  our  lines  locked  and  froze, 
and  ever  since  he  has  been  sleeping  in  that  fright- 
ful place  known  as  Our  Front. 

For  months  that  little  cross  had  stood  there, 
while  landmarks  all  about  had  been  wiped 
out,  while  the  tower  of  the  Cloth  Hall  had  been 
pulverized,  and  the  Verbranden  Windmill  splin- 
tered to  kindling-wood.  I  have  often  paused 
up  there  on  the  front  line,  after  a  nasty  "strafe" 
from  Fritz,  and  regarded  with  awe  that  immortal 
wooden  cross.  With  parapets  crumpled  in  in 
many  places,  and  the  ground  about  pocked  with 
shell-holes,  amid  all  this  wild  havoc  the  simple 
memorial  to  the  dead  French  soldier  seemed  to 
bear  a  charm. 

288 


HOW   SLEEP   THE    BRAVE 

At  home  we  have  a  cemetery  in  a  place  of 
rustic  peace,  looking  down  to  where  the  ships 
go  out  to  sea.  There  in  their  snug  haven 
the  dead  forgot  their  storms.  But  under  the 
wooden  cross,  up  there  in  the  front-line  trench, 
the  fallen  French  soldier  slept  just  as  soundly 
as  they.  Mines  might  be  sprung  around  his 
grave,  and  months  of  storms  and  thunders 
roll  across  his  resting-place,  but  the  inviolate 
cross  remained,  an  emblem  of  his  peace  un- 
broken. 

One  day  on  the  Somme,  while  moving  over  a 
fresh  battle-field,  looking  for  a  new  position  for 
our  guns,  I  chanced  upon  the  grave  of  a  corporal 
of  the  East  Surrey  Regiment. 

He  had  been  hastily  buried,  just  where  he  fell 
upon  the  field  of  battle.  There  had  been  no  time 
for  ceremony  or  for  the  planting  of  a  cross.  His 
rifle  had  been  thrust  into  the  ground  to  mark  the 
grave,  and  his  soldier's  cap  was  placed  upon  the 
mound  of  turf  to  serve  as  a  memorial.  That 
little  weather-beaten  khaki  cap  was  unobserved 
by  many,  but  to  those  who  saw  it  was  a  memorial 
as  eloquent  as  costly  marble.  As  I  bent  over  to 
examine  the  grave  I  saw  a  shingle  on  which  some 
rough  hand  had  scribbled  a  short  text  with  an 
indelible  pencil.  The  rains  had  washed  blue 
streaks  across  the  writing.    One  could  just  de- 

19  289 


THE   REAL   FRONT 

cipher  the  text.     It  was,  "Thou  art  forever  with 
the  Lord." 

The  rough  soldier's  epitaph  brought  to  mind  a 
visit  which  I  had  made  to  the  Catacombs  of  St. 
Calixtus.  There  on  the  tomb  of  a  baby  girl  I 
read  in  Greek,  "Dearest  Cleo,  sweetest  child, 
thou  art  forever  with  the  Lord." 

To  encounter  such  evidences  of  faith  on  the 
battle-field  of  the  Somme  or  in  the  Catacombs  of 
St.  Calixtus  was  to  feel  instinctively  that  here  at 
last  was  the  real  thing.  Matters  of  faith  were 
dark  enough  on  the  Somme,  but  to  read  the  hope 
of  that  Tommy  was  like  the  bursting  forth  from 
darkness  of  some  serene  and  shining  star. 

I  was  in  the  Ypres  salient  in  April,  1915,  and 
back  there  again  in  the  spring  of  1916.  That 
bloody  and  awful  salient  is  a  vast  graveyard  of 
Canada's  fairest  and  best. 

A  young  Canadian  officer,  who  was  a  comrade 
of  mine,  told  me  how  that  in  the  summer  of  1913 
he  left  the  city  of  Ypres,  a  cameo  of  priceless 
beauty,  with  the  splendor  of  its  Cloth  Hall  and 
its  cathedral  and  its  guilds,  and  took  the  tram- 
line out  to  Kruystrsesthenk  Corner.  Alighting 
there,  he  and  his  sister  crossed  the  fields  where  the 
daisies  and  anemones  were  growing,  and  regaled 
themselves  in  the  wondrous  charm  of  that  Flem- 
ish landscape.     Now  on  those  same  fields  that 

290 


HOW   SLEEP    THE    BRAVE 

officer  is  sleeping,  and  in  summers  to  come  the 
flowers  that  spring  up  there  shall  wave  above  his 
grave. 

On  fine  mornings  in  June  as  I  have  been  coming 
in  or  going  out  from  our  battery  position  I  have 
passed  through  the  grounds  of  Bedford  House 
and  Belgian  Chateau,  and  I  have  marveled  at 
what  must  have  been  the  exceeding  beauty  of 
that  place  in  times  of  peace.  A  wistful  loveliness 
still  lingers  round  the  ruins.  If  in  the  past  light 
hearts  have  journeyed  there  for  scenes  of  beauty, 
in  years  to  come  a  host  of  deeper  hearts  will 
journey  there  as  to  a  shrine. 

If  where  an  Englishman  is  buried  on  a  foreign 
soil  is  called  "a  little  bit  of  England,"  then  we 
may  call  the  Ypres  salient  a  mighty  bit  of 
Canada.  If  any  one  were  to  inquire  what  is  the 
most  important  city  of  Canada,  we  might  answer, 
unhesitatingly,  "The  city  of  Ypres."  The  hosts 
of  our  young  men  who  have  fallen  in  battles 
round  that  city  have  hallowed  the  name  for  all 
Canadian  hearts,  and  rendered  the  place  ours  in 
the  deepest  sense. 

Montreal,  and  Halifax,  and  Vancouver,  are 
among  our  lesser  cities,  but  Ypres,  where  so  many 
of  our  brave  are  buried,  shall  remain  for  us  the 
city  of  our  everlasting  possessions.  In  years  to 
come,  the  touchstone  for  the  Maple  Leaf  will 

291 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

not    be    "Queenstown's    Heights    and    Lundy's 
Lane,"  but  "Ypres  and  Lagemark." 

I  stood  one  night  on  a  certain  hill  that  com- 
mands the  firing-line  in  an  almost  boundless 
panorama.  Beside  me  was  an  officer  of  the 
Second  Canadian  Division,  who  had  just  come 
out.  There  that  night,  by  its  white  trail  of 
iridescent  light,  we  could  trace  the  course  of  the 
firing-line  for  many  miles  through  France  and 
Flanders. 

Just  to  our  left  the  line  of  light  jutted  far  out, 
like  a  lone  cape  into  the  sea.  "What  is  that 
jutting-out  place?"  my  friend  inquired. 

"That,"  I  answered,  "is  the  Ypres  salient,  the 
bloody  angle  of  the  British  line." 

To  mention  the  name  of  Ypres  is  to  have  one's 
memory  awakened  with  a  veritable  kaleidoscope 
of  pictures.  That  trail  of  light  that  jutted  out 
into  the  night  looked  like  a  cape,  and  an  iron 
cape  it  has  been  through  months  and  years  of 
war.  But  the  holding  of  that  cape  has  been  at 
an  awful  cost,  and  there  was  not  an  inch  along 
that  trailing  line  of  light  that  had  not  cost  its 
trailing  line  of  blood. 

Just  after  the  first  gas  attack  in  April,  1915, 
the  whole  countryside  was  in  a  panic.  The 
roads  were  filled  with  civilians  in  alarm,  fleeing 
down  country,  and  with  limbers  and  marching 

292 


HOW   SLEEP   THE    BRAVE 

troops  hastening  up.  I  was  passing  through  the 
town  of  Vlamerthignc,  which  is  situated  two 
miles  beyond  Ypres.  In  a  field  at  the  side  of  the 
road  I  saw  a  funeral  party.  It  consisted  of  sev- 
eral pioneers,  serving  as  grave-diggers,  a  gray- 
headed  Scottish  major,  and  a  corporal's  guard  to 
act  as  firing-party. 

I  learned  that  this  inconspicuous  group  were 
burying  the  last  original  officer  of  a  battalion  of 
the  Cameron  Highlanders.  The  dead  officer  was 
a  young  subaltern,  and  the  gray-haired  old  major 
was  his  father,  who  had  come  from  another  regi- 
ment to  attend  the  funeral  of  his  son. 

As  they  were  lowering  the  body,  wrapped  in  a 
gray  blanket,  into  a  grave,  the  old  major  re- 
monstrated: "No,  not  there,  not  there!  He 
fought  with  his  men  in  life,  and  he  shall  be 
buried  with  them  in  death." 

So,  over  in  a  great,  deep  trench,  where  a  num- 
ber of  the  rank  and  file  of  the  fallen  Camerons 
were  already  laid,  the  body  of  their  dead  subal- 
tern was  placed.  As  I  saw  the  officer  and  his 
men  of  that  bonnie  Highland  regiment  thus  laid 
to  rest  together,  I  thought  of  the  requiem  of 
Saul  and  Jonathan,  "They  were  beautiful  in 
their  lives,  and  in  their  deaths  they  were  not 
divided." 

As  the  rifles  rang  out  in  a  volley  for  the  last 

293 


THE   REAL   FRONT 

farewell  a  passing  squadron  of  the  Bengal 
Lancers,  crack  cavalry  from  the  Khyber  Pass, 
halted  suddenly  and  came  to  the  salute.  Thus 
troopers  from  the  Highlands  of  India  paid  their 
last  respects  to  a  fallen  comrade  from  the  High- 
lands of  Scotland. 

I  was  out  of  the  trenches  in  hospital  at  the  time 
that  my  dearest  friend  in  France  was  killed.  On 
first  returning  to  the  front  I  did  not  have  the 
courage  to  visit  his  grave.  I  sent  some  of  my 
men  to  plant  flowers  there,  and  after  a  time  I 
went  myself.  That  was  my  most  poignant  mo- 
ment in  France. 

The  flowers  had  sprung  up  and  were  blooming 
on  his  grave,  and  a  little  white  cross  stood  there 
with  the  name  of  my  beloved  pal  upon  it.  Near 
by  stood  another  cross,  bearing  the  name  of  his 
brother.  I  thought  of  what  they  two  had  done 
for  their  country,  and  of  what  their  widowed 
mother  had  given,  and  beside  those  two  white 
crosses  all  that  we  living  ones  called  sacrifice 
seemed  to  grow  pale  and  fade  into  insignificance. 

Verbranden  Moulin,  Hill  60,  and  Mount  Sorrel 
are  three  hills  to  the  left  of  Ypres.  For  Flanders 
in  the  summer  of  1914  they  were  points  in  a 
landscape  of  beauty.  For  Canada  to-day  they 
are  triple  landmarks  of  glory  and  sorrow. 

One  morning  in  August,  1916,  our  brigade  of 

294 


HOW   SLEEP   THE   BRAVE 

artillery  said  "Good-by"  to  "Wipers."  With 
mingled  feelings  I  turned  back  in  my  saddle  and 
gazed  long  and  intently  at  the  tragic  place  that 
had  cost  us  so  much  of  our  precious  blood.  The 
towers  of  the  Cloth  Hall  and  the  cathedral  were 
in  ruins.  The  high  steeple  of  the  Poperinghe 
church  still  stood.  I  was  glad  to  bid  these  land- 
marks all  good-by,  but  in  those  fields  and  hills  be- 
yond I  left  my  heart  with  many  a  fallen  comrade. 
Often  since  my  heart  has  journeyed  back  there  to 
those  same  tragic  fields  in  which  they  sleep. 
But  I  know  that  they  are  sleeping  well,  in  the 
repose  of  those  whose  work  is  nobly  done. 

I  think  that  some  of  our  American  allies,  who 
are  new  to  the  sacrifice  of  this  war,  have  not  yet 
entered  into  its  deeper  and  hidden  meaning.  As 
the  long  lists  of  inevitable  American  casualties 
appear  in  the  newspapers,  we  must  not  get 
into  a  panic  of  the  soul,  we  must  not  pity  the  men 
who  have  fallen.  They  need  no  pity,  and  could 
they  speak  they  would  repudiate  such  maudlin 
sentiment. 

If  the  fallen  brave  could  talk  to  us,  we  know 
that  it  would  be  to  tell  us  to  envy  them,  and  not 
to  pity  them,  because  their  lives  have  found  so 
glorious  an  ending. 

Idealism  wanes  in  prosperity  and  waxes  in  ad- 
versity.   England  has  become  a  new  England 

295 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

out  of  the  adversities  of  this  war,  and  in  the  same 
struggle  a  new  America  will  be  born. 

I  met  a  certain  woman  at  dinner  not  long  ago, 
a  representative  of  that  prosperous  type  of  fe- 
male referred  to  by  the  prophet  Amos  as  the 
"Kine  of  Bashan."  She  waved  her  hands  and 
deplored  the  fact  that  "poor  dear  General 
Pershing  had  to  go  to  France!'* 

I  said  to  her,  "Madam,  what  are  soldiers  for?" 

She  replied,  "Oh  yes,  but  we  may  lose  him!" 

I  answered:   "Did  you  lose  Stonewall  Jackson 

when  he  died  gloriously  fighting  at  Chancellors- 

ville?    Did  you  lose  any  of  your  brave  who  have 

died  for  their  country?" 

Corporal  Fisher  was  a  college  boy  in  Canada 
in  the  spring  of  1914.  In  the  spring  of  1915 
he  was  the  bastion  of  the  British  line  at  Ypres. 
Only  a  school-boy  yesterday;  but  to-day,  with 
the  gray  waves  of  Germans  rolling  toward  him, 
he  and  his  machine-gun  were  the  rock  on  which 
the  whole  line  held  or  broke. 

Corporal  Fisher  was  young  in  years,  but  he 
stuck  to  his  post  of  duty,  and  died  in  the  fullness 
of  honor.  In  time  to  come  school-boys  of  our 
great  Dominion  will  hear  how  Corporal  Fisher 
won  the  Victoria  Cross  in  his  passing.  His  career, 
so  short,  and  yet  so  bright,  will  remain  one  of 
Canada's  shining  and  everlasting  possessions. 

296 


HOW   SLEEP   THE    BRAVE 

America  is  tiptoeing  along  the  threshold  of 
such  new  possessions.  A  galaxy  of  new  names 
about  to  burst  forth  in  the  pages  of  American 
history.  We  must  not,  then,  forget  the  glory 
which  is  woven  with  our  sorrow.  Our  dead  who 
have  fallen  in  battle  shall  sleep  well  in  an  alien 
land,  and  we  who  still  remain  must  not  withhold 
from  them  the  pride  which  is  their  due. 


XVIII 


"vers  la  gloire" 


"  rilHE  roads  to  Ypres  are  paths  to  glory  and 
*  the  grave."  These  were  the  words  of  the 
major  as  the  battery  in  the  dead  of  night  came 
around  Suicide  Corner,  passing  in  column  of 
route  to  occupy  once  more  a  bloody  position 
in  the  dreaded  salient. 

"To  the  grave,  but  not  to  glory,"  said  the  sober 
subaltern.  "There's  no  such  thing  as  glory  in 
this  war." 

The  sober  subaltern  called  it  "Ichabod — the 
war  in  which  the  glory  is  departed."  He  was  sad 
indeed,  remembering  tales  of  other  days.  "I 
was  born  a  hundred  years  too  late,"  he  sighed, 
as  he  thought  of  his  vanished  dreams.  He  was 
cradled  in  a  garrison  city  by  the  sea,  where  the 
fife  and  drum  throbbed  out  their  greeting  to  the 
dawn,  and  where  a  silver  bugle  sang  its  swan- 
song  to  the  closing  day.  The  martial  melodies 
were  in  his  blood.  His  boyhood  days  were 
passed  beside  the  surges  where  the  battle-fleets 

298 


"VERS    LA    GLOIRE 


» > 


were  moored,  while  from  the  frowning  citidal 
above  his  town  he  saw  his  proud  flag  fly  and 
watched  the  scarlet  troops  come  down. 

But  now  the  glamours  of  his  boyhood  days 
were  flown,  and  naught  but  cold  and  mud  and 
bitterness  and  death  remained  on  that  awful 
landscape  fronting  toward  Hill  60. 

Distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view.  This 
trite  saying  has  many  applications,  but  above  all 
it  applies  to  martial  glory. 

I  talked  once  with  Trooper  William  McCor- 
mick,  of  the  Eighth  Royal  Irish  Hussars,  who 
rode  with  the  Six  Hundred  in  the  immortal 
Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade.  He  said  nothing 
of  martial  glory,  but  he  talked  much  of  the  bit- 
terness of  the  Crimea,  of  the  lack  of  food,  of  the 
terrible  cold,  of  the  suffering  of  men  and  horses 
in  open  bivouac  throughout  that  awful  winter. 

I  said,  "Trooper,  do  you  remember  the  morn- 
ing of  the  charge?" 

"I  remember  it  as  if  it  was  yisterday,"  he 
answered.  "  The  'orse-lines  was  murk  and  damp, 
and  me  mate  and  I  was  cursing  as  the  mist  came 
floating  up  the  Balaklava  Valley."  He  said 
nothing  about  the  glory  of  the  charge,  but  talked 
only  of  the  hardships  and  the  sorrows.  The  long 
Valley  of  Balaklava  for  Trooper  McCormick  was 
a   nightmare   of   haunting   gloom,    a   place   of 

299 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

abysmal  wretchedness  where  he  left  most  of  his 
comrades  forever. 

I  had  always  thrilled  to  Tennyson's  "Charge 
of  the  Light  Brigade."  But  the  background 
which  Trooper  McCormick  gave  to  the  poet's 
flashing  picture  turned  all  its  gay  and  glittering 
hues  into  a  somber  gray. 

Recently  I  heard  a  friend  comparing  the 
British  entry  into  Jerusalem  with  the  glory  of  that 
other  triumphal  entry  in  the  time  of  the  Crusades. 
'Those  were  the  days  for  fighting!' '  he  ex- 
claimed. 

Our  British  troops  in  khaki  filing  through  the 
gate  at  the  Tower  of  David  seem  a  poor  spectacle 
indeed  compared  with  the  plumed  knights  of  God- 
frey de  Bouillon,  with  tossing  spears  and  coats 
of  shining  mail.  But  I  doubt  if  those  brave 
knights,  encumbered  by  their  hundred  pounds 
of  iron,  felt  much  more  glorious  than  a  prome- 
nading junk-shop  by  the  time  they  reached  the 
Heights  of  Zion. 

When  I  crossed  the  Atlantic  in  1914  with  a 
convoy  of  thirty  transports,  a  deckmate  was  for- 
ever bemoaning  the  departure  of  glory  from  the 
sea.  By  day  the  mile-long  columns  marched 
across  the  ocean's  gray.  By  night  the  blinking 
war-ships  folded  us  upon  the  vast  and  heaving 
waste.     But  my  mate  was  repining  for  the  "good 

300 


«  t 


VERS   LA    GLOIRE" 


old  days"  of  Nelson  and  of  Drake.  Their  glory 
he  could  see  in  the  enchantment  of  far  distance. 
A  vast  and  panoramic  picture  of  modern  glory  on 
the  sea  was  stretched  before  him,  but  he  saw  it 
not.  He  himself  was  a  part  of  that  grand  New 
World  armada,  but  he  was  too  engaged  in  envy- 
ing the  past  to  regard  the  vaster  splendor  of  his 
present. 

When  we  were  near  to  England  the  battle- 
cruiser  Princess  Royal,  one  of  our  convoying  war- 
ships, steamed  at  full  speed  between  our  lines. 
She  was  stripped  for  action,  with  her  great  guns 
pointing  upward.  Sailors  in  dirty  jeans  thronged 
her  decks,  and  up  along  the  fighting-tops  ap- 
peared the  men  in  blue.  Thirty  thousand  tons 
went  by  at  thirty  knots  an  hour,  and  as  she 
passed  with  cheers  and  answering  cheers  we 
heard  her  band  playing  forth  our  national  song, 
"O  Canada!"  Our  melancholy  mate  in  that 
short,  thrilling  moment  caught  his  breath  and 
cautiously  admitted  from  the  honor  of  the  past, 
"That's  some  sight!" 

But  when  the  Princess  Royal  had  passed,  "sky- 
hooting  through  the  brine,"  the  melancholy  one 
deplored,  "She  hasn't  got  a  look-in  with  the  yards 
and  spars  of  those  tall  ships  they  used  to  have  in 
Nelson's  day." 

If  our  melancholy  mate  could  have  descended 

301 


THE   REAL   FRONT 

into  the  Victory's  betweendecks,  during  battle, 
with  its  foul  and  loathsome  quarters  and  with  its 
awful  filth  and  stench,  the  brightness  of  that  dis- 
tant glory  might  not  have  shone  so  fair  for  him. 
We  are  all  dazzled  by  alluring  glory  far  away, 
while  most  of  us  are  blind  to  splendors  near  at 
hand. 

In  the  Pantheon  in  Paris  is  a  picture  that  once 
set  my  soul  aflame.  It  is  entitled  "Vers  la 
Gloire."  The  artist  in  blazing  colors  has  set 
forth  troopers  of  various  cavalry  regiments  in 
headlong  charge;  Uhlans,  Hungarian  Hussars, 
Cossacks,  Dragoons,  Cuirassiers,  and  Lancers 
dashing  upward  and  onward,  through  cloud  and 
smoke  of  battle,  to  where  high  and  over  all  stands 
the  figure  of  La  Gloire. 

The  soul  of  the  artist  shines  in  that  immortal 
canvas,  with  crimson  and  gold,  with  pomp  and 
circumstance,  with  fire  and  tempest,  with  flashing 
swords  and  prancing  hoofs.  The  picture  is  a 
perfect  cloudburst  of  splendor,  at  once  dazzling 
and  overwhelming  to  the  senses. 

Just  back  from  the  Balkan  War,  with  all  of 
youth's  exuberance  and  dreams  of  martial  glory, 
I  stood  before  that  picture  enraptured,  and  hailed 
it  as  the  greatest  painting  that  I  had  seen  in 
Europe. 

Since  then  I  have  seen  that  picture,  "Vers  la 

302 


"VERS   LA    GLOIRE" 

Gloire,"  again — not  in  a  narrow  glimpse  upon 
three  panels  in  the  Pantheon,  but  painted  far 
across  ten  thousand  leagues  of  sky. 

On  the  night  of  our  advance  at  Canibrai  I 
stood  on  the  hills  of  Pittsburg  and  gazed  upon  the 
infinite  and  far-flung  glory  of  that  last  advance. 
Before  me,  stretched  out  along  the  valley,  were 
the  flaming  chimneys  where  the  toilers  forged 
the  shells.  There  on  the  hills  of  Pittsburg  that 
night  I  saw  the  beginning  of  those  battle-lines 
that  stretched  forever  on  and  on  from  reeking 
foundries  and  from  roaring  trains  unto  the  in- 
satiable mouths  of  our  uttermost  blazing  guns. 

To  the  gunners  attending  the  blazing  guns  on 
the  perilous  outposts,  'mid  darkness,  rain  and 
mud,  there  was  naught  of  glory  in  the  task. 
The  grimy,  sweaty  artisans  who  toiled  amid  the 
sparks  on  the  foundry  floor  saw  only  horrific 
flashes  from  the  blast-furnace.  "Glory,"  whis- 
pered in  their  ears,  brought  forth  contemptuous 
outbursts.  "G'arn!  there  ain't  no  glory  here — 
it's  just  plain  hell!" 

The  fed-up  one  in  a  front-line  trench  would 
burst  forth  in  like  contemptuousness  at  mention 
of  such  a  word.  Amid  the  grime  and  smoke  of 
Pittsburg  the  toilers  by  the  tireless  fires  lose 
every  vision  of  a  place  beyond,  and  the  soldier, 
wet  and  shivering  in  his  miserable  trench,  is 

303 


THE    REAL    FRONT 

likewise  engulfed  in  an  impenetrable  gloom. 
But,  from  the  red  of  the  Pittsburg  sky  to  the 
flash  of  the  Cambrai  guns,  for  those  with  eyes  to 
see,  there  stretches  an  infinite  panorama  of  the 
glory  of  modern  war. 

For  many,  in  arsenals  and  trenches,  this  glory 
is  obscured.  But  he  who  can  stand  off  to  gain 
perspective  will  catch  glimpses  of  infinite  gran- 
deur of  our  human  struggle  as  this  war  unfolds 
before  him. 

It  is  the  popular  thing  to  say  that  there  is  no 
glory  in  this  war,  or  that  the  glory  of  the  struggle 
is  unseen.  But  for  sheer  splendor  of  spectacle  a 
modern  battle-field  renders  paltry  and  dim  every 
field  in  the  past  about  which  artists  and  poets 
have  painted  and  sung. 

Let  those  who  talk  about  the  English  line  at 
Waterloo  withdraw  and  from  a  distance  gaze 
upon  that  grim  line  of  England  and  of  France  to- 
day. A  line  that  stands,  not  for  a  tragic  hour, 
or  for  a  day;  a  line  that  stands  while  weeks  roll 
into  months,  and  months  roll  into  years.  If  we 
admire  the  British  calm  in  the  squares  at  Quatre- 
Bras,  a  calm  that  lasted  through  those  awful 
hours,  what  shall  we  say  of  the  British  calm  of 
those  who  stand  in  the  long  lines  at  Ypres,  as 
imperturbable  as  the  passing  years? 

If  one  asks  for  the  spectacular  in  his  scenes  of 

304 


"VERS    LA    GLOIRE" 

martial  glory,  let  him  turn  away  from  the  Thin 
Red  Line,  or  from  the  Old  Guard's  white  and 
blue;  let  him  regard  the  vaster  spectacle  of 
modern  war,  traced  against  the  widest  reaches  of 
the  night,  over  earth  and  sky  and  sea.  Let  him 
watch  the  battle-fleets  go  dropping  down  along 
the  foreland,  with  blinking  lights  that  talk 
through  leagues  of  gloom;  or  watch  above  the 
battle-fields  where  a  thousand  stars  look  down, 
and  where  another  thousand  stars  leap  up  to 
meet  them  in  the  night. 

If  the  poet  Byron  waxed  so  eloquent  when  he 
sings  of  battle's  magnificently  stern  array,  what 
would  he  say  could  he  but  catch  one  sweeping 
glimpse  of  the  star-shells  rising  on  that  half- 
thousand  miles  of  battle-line  from  the  Vosges 
Mountains  to  the  sea? 

In  spite  of  all  its  tragedy  and  all  its  sorrow, 
this  war  represents  the  full  -  blown  flower  of 
glory,  alike  in  splendor  of  spectacle,  and  in 
its  deeper  splendors  that  are  hidden  in  the 
hearts  of  men. 

In  the  days  of  chivalry  about  which  we  boast 
so  much,  glory  was  a  monopoly  reserved  for 
knights  anu  kings.  In  those  brave  days  the 
shining  splendor  rode  alone  with  the  elite  in 
pageantry  of  scarlet  and  gold.  In  this  war  glory 
walks  o     foot,  not  with  kings  and  princes,  but 

20  305 


THE    REAL   FRONT 

with  heroes  of  unknown  name,  in  homespun, 
gray,  and  khaki;  with  laborers  and  navvies, 
with  the  poor  and  with  the  lowly.  The  glory 
of  this  war  is  the  glory  of  the  common  man. 

In  this  war  those  that  were  high  and  mighty 
have  come  to  the  humblest  tasks,  and  those  that 
once  were  the  greatest  have  become  the  servants 
of  all. 

Riding  down  from  the  front  line,  one  evening, 
on  the  Somme,  I  encountered  a  column  of  march- 
ing troops.  As  they  wore  bandoliers,  I  recog- 
nized them  as  mounted  men. 

"Who  are  you?"  I  called  out. 

"The  Royal  Horse  Guards— Blues,"  some  one 
answered. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  up  front?"  I 
inquired. 

"Burying  the  dead  at  Moltke  Farm,"  replied 
the  former  speaker. 

The  Household  Cavalry,  the  right  of  the  line 
in  the  British  Army,  acting  as  scavengers  of  the 
battle-field!  "Alas,"  moans  the  defender  of  the 
privileged  classes,  "alas,  how  the  glory  has  de- 
parted!" But  the  Horse  Guards,  serving  at  that 
menial  work,  are  but  an  emblem  of  democracy 
for  which  we  fight,  where  all  alike  must  share  the 
meanest  task,  and  where  all  alike  may  aspire  to 
the  highest  glory. 


306 


"VERS    LA    GLOIRE" 

The  spirit  in  which  these  high-born  men  work 
out  their  loathsome  duties  is  one  of  the  brightest 
features  of  this  war. 

"I  suppose  you  chaps  are  pretty  well  dis- 
gusted with  your  latest  job,"  I  said  to  the  officer 
who  marched  at  the  head  of  the  Blues. 

"Not  at  all,  old  chap,"  he  said.  "We're  bally 
well  glad  to  have  our  part  to  do,  whatever  it  may 
be."  That  high-born  officer  of  the  Blues,  meet- 
ing his  menial  task  in  that  brave  and  uncom- 
plaining spirit,  was  adding  to  the  luster  of  his 
regiment. 

Valor  and  glory  shine  brightest  when  we  behold 
them  in  sacrifices  such  as  that  of  Gen.  John 
Gough,  V.C.,  who  went  from  his  place  of  safety 
far  down  the  line  to  take  comforts  to  his  old 
troops,  and  was  killed  while  on  his  mission 
of  mercy.  If  where  a  high  officer  sacrifices  him- 
self for  his  men  is  glorious,  what  shall  we  say 
of  the  deed  of  a  British  officer  who  offered  him- 
self to  save  his  foe? 

During  an  attempted  daylight  raid  on  the  part 
of  the  Germans  they  were  held  up  by  a  withering 
machine-gun  fire  and  retired  with  great  loss  to 
their  own  trenches.  One  poor  Hun,  who  was 
terribly  wounded,  was  impaled  upon  his  own 
wire,  and  he  hung  there  writhing  in  agony 
before  the  eyes  of  both  armies.     Finally  the  sight 

307 


THE   REAL   FRONT 

of  his  suffering  and  his  cries  for  help  were  too 
much  for  an  English  officer  in  the  trenches  op- 
posite. Vaulting  over  the  parapet,  he  walked 
boldly  across  No  Man's  Land  in  the  direct  face 
of  the  foe,  and,  lifting  his  wounded  enemy  from 
the  impaling  wire,  he  carried  him  across  the 
Hun  parapet  and  down  into  his  own  trenches. 
When  he  arrived  there,  a  German  officer  took 
an  iron  cross  which  he  wore  off  his  own  breast, 
and  placed  it  on  the  breast  of  the  brave  British 
officer.  The  firing  on  both  sides  ceased  while 
he  returned  to  his  own  trenches.  And  looking 
on,  both  friend  and  foe  alike  knew  that  they  had 
beheld  the  highest  form  of  martial  glory. 

Those  who  imagine  that  this  war  is  all  baseness 
are  mistaken,  for  humanity  is  still  greater  than 
enmity,  and  often  sacrifice  is  greater  than  vic- 
tory. 

A  lady  visiting  in  a  Dublin  hospital  was  talking 
with  a  wounded  soldier  on  religion.  The  soldier 
drew  from  under  his  pillow  a  little  English 
Testament. 

"This  was  given  to  me,"  he  said,  "by  my 
enemy.  We  met  in  No  Man's  Land  and  one  of 
us  had  to  go.  I  killed  him.  While  he  was  dying 
I  bent  over  and  gave  him  to  drink  from  my 
water-bottle.  He  could  speak  English  and  he 
drew  this  Testament  from  his  tunic,  and  with  his 

308 


"VERS    LA    GLOIRE" 

dying  breath  said:  'This  book  has  been  the 
water  of  life  to  me.     I  give  it  to  you.'" 

Like  a  lone  star  from  the  Hun's  night  of  bar- 
barism shines  out  the  dying  example  of  this 
Christian  soldier  of  our  foe.  In  the  days  of 
peace  that  are  to  come,  when  Germany  has  for- 
gotten the  nightmare  of  the  clanking  saber  and 
the  shining  armor  of  the  war-lord,  when  all  the 
baser  glories  are  departed,  the  glory  of  that 
Christian  soldier  will  remain. 

My  picture,  "Vers  la  Gloire,"  to-day  begins 
low  down  in  the  wallowing  mud  and  mire  of 
Flanders,  but  it  soars  beyond  the  stars.  "You 
have  lost  all,"  sneers  the  Kaiser  to  the  noble 
King  of  Belgium.  "Nay,"  replies  Albert,  "I 
have  not  lost  my  soul."  Possessing  her  soul  in 
the  shards  and  the  ashes,  Belgium  has  reached  the 
zenith  of  her  glory.  For  mortal  eyes,  that  brave 
and  living  wall  before  the  shattered  town  of 
Ypres  have  gained  for  all  their  epic  struggles 
naught  but  a  mass  of  stone  and  ruin.  But  for 
those  with  eyes  to  see,  they  have  laid  foundation 
for  a  fairer  city  on  this  earth  whose  glory  will  be 
brotherhood. 


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